Harry Potter and Kronos's Wager
by Zee White King
Summary: You know the story. The war is over, everyone's dead. And Harry goes back to try and change it all. But, something wonky happens. Now masquerading as Cederic Dumbledore, Harry has to make a new life for himself, including old mentors, new friends, and, soon enough, a world that is yet again at war.
1. Time Travel for Fun and Profit

**Author's Notes: **This FanFiction was inspired by Altered Destinies, written by DobbyElfLord. The only two things that this really takes from that wonderful FF are, first, the general historical backdrop, and, second, the fact that Harry doesn't end up when he intends. After that, it's all me (with JKR's pieces, of course). It's also important to know that I have read almost all of the FFs in my "favourites" more than once, some even thrice. If there is anything that reminds you of them, well, it's because I probably stole it (or an idea substantially similar) from them. Hopefully, my fiction will be distinctive enough as to be enjoyed uniquely.

This Fic will be mostly canon compliant. I've changed a little about book seven (which mostly shows up in the first chapter), and you'll notice that some of the background information is changed (for example, Dorea Potter, nee Black is Harry's grandmother and she did not die of old age).

Also, I'm inviting criticism, as much as you got. Please give me as harsh criticism as you can fathom. Rants are welcome. Similarly, if anyone wants to be a beta, I'm on the lookout for one for this fic or the other one on which I'm working (see profile for details).

**Disclaimer:**

I'm not going to do a silly little "disclaimer" after this one. Legally, they don't mean shit. More to the point, JKR has already given us all her permission. Thus, they're not just irrelevances, but redundant irrelevances.

Let the show begin.

**Chapter One: Time Travel for Fun and Profit**

There is something painfully ironic about weather. In real life, it acts nothing like it does in books. Days of pain and suffering are not overcast, and days of hope and joy do not shine bright. Take for example the night that Professor Dumbledore died. It was clear, sharp, and, though not hot, certainly far from cold. The day he was buried, it was clear and warm, quite unusual for Scotland. And the day that the British Wizarding World collapsed, barely a month after Dumbledore's death, was another unseasonably gorgeous day.

The day I learnt that I was a wizard, on the other hand, was howling and glacial. The day of my first kiss – real kiss, Cho doesn't count – was windy and rainy as well. That one isn't a great example, though, since I was inside and so I didn't really notice the weather. Fine – the day that I lost my virginity then. Hogwarts was caught in a blinding blizzard, made even worse by the fact that it was the middle of October.

Well – the fact that Voldemort had just killed half of Hogwarts above fifth year and pretty much all of the Order didn't help either.

Anyways, my point was that it might be just that books don't know how life works at all, or maybe fate takes particular comfort in buggering me blind, but I've noticed that there is something morbidly ironic about weather. This recollection is fairly new too. It arose as I sat with my back against the outer wall of what was left of The Three Broomsticks, staring up at the happily naked sun or alternatively at the blackened, smoking corpse of my now deceased mortal enemy. It had been an hour, but I hadn't moved, though Susan Bones had brought me some tea and a scone, for which I would be eternally grateful.

To make this whole situation even worse, it was raining in London, where they were actually celebrating Voldemort's death and not mourning those who'd been slaughtered for our victory. Seriously fate, god, destiny, whatever-the-blah you are – what the fuck?

Just then, the sky opened up and it started raining right over me. Literally – right over me. Not anywhere else, just over me. I was so shocked that I yelled, at least in my mind. To the outside world, I barely moved my eyes upwards. I knew then, distantly, in the back of my mind, that there was going to be a serious reckoning with all the events of my life. The reckoning would probably involve a bottle or five of fire-whiskey, my photo album, and quite possibly a polyjuiced prostitute. That, or I could see if Fleur had survived.

"Harry," pause, "Harry – are you alright son?"

I moved my eyes left and they landed on Professor McGonagall. The rain had stopped. I meandered to the conclusion that she had cast the raincloud. I just sort of looked at her.

Then I dropped my gaze and thought of Hermione's final words as she rationalised Ron's execution, Ginny's sacrifice, and her own slow lingering assassination. I had held her hand for days, comforting her during her racking pain while awake, and begging her not to leave me while she slept. She caught me at it towards the end, me telling her that she was irreplaceable – like Ginny, like Ron, like Remus, like Dumbledore, like Sirius, like my parents. She sat there, with a sad smile on her face. She pushed herself up a little higher on the bed, despite the obvious pain it caused her, and grabbed my face. Placing a clammy kiss on my lips, she said 'Long before this war was fought, graveyards have been filled with irreplaceable people.'

I got the point. And I actually cried. She cried with me, and she died with me hugging her, begging her to stay just a little longer.

I've felt guilty about the begging every fucking day since.

It wasn't until I felt the pressure surround me, compressing me to the width of a straw, that I even knew someone had touched me. As we came out of apparition, I landed, rolled, and rose to shoot a violet burst of death at my enemy. It was deflected with a high shout. Her voice, technically her accent, not the circumstances, brought me back to reality.

"Sorry Professor."

"It's alright Potter," she panted.

We were at her family's town house in Glasgow. She had used it as a safe house during the war. The cots were still scattered around the living room. And I pondered about how the refuse of the war could still be scattered about, how I could still feel as if I were at war, and yet the war was done, over, completed, successful.

I gave a sad little snort at the word 'successful.' Luckily, it was drowned out by McGonagall turning on the wireless. A jubilant voice pattered on about who knows what for all of a second, maybe two, before McGonagall turned it off again.

"Sorry, wasn't really thinking," was said while a small little clank came from my side.

"S'okay – habit, I know," I chimed in after looking to my side. There was a tall glass of fire-whiskey. It wasn't Ogden's either, but genuine Hipworth – the good stuff. After a pause, I asked, "you wouldn't happen to have any polyjuice left, would you?"

"What? Why?"

I just shook my head. Taking a deep gulp, not just a sip, as I should have, I looked up at McGonagall. She was sprawled out on a lounging chair, looking at me with concern and puckered lips. Something in her expression made me remembering a comment Seamus once made in Fifth Year while we preparing for our OWLs: 'it's a wonder McGonagall hasn't died years ago from shit-poisoning, her ass is bound so fucking tight.' This lead Dean to ask how Seamus would know, exactly how he would know, how tight McGonagall's ass was.

And I did the most deliriously unexpected thing; I laughed. It started as a snort, followed by another snort, and then a ducking of my head. Then I started to chuckle, which turned quickly into a snicker and then a guffaw. The guffaw turned into a sharp, distinct, rolling giggle – especially after I thought of my laugh as a 'guffaw.' Then I dropped my head backwards and barked out a laugh – and then I laughed and laughed and laughed big bellied bursts.

I felt like how Sirius must have felt the night that Pettigrew fucked us all. It was over, the war was won, and I had survived. Yet, I lost everything and almost everyone. McGonagall, Fleur, and Percy and Arthur Weasley were the only people left for whom I actually cared. Yet, here I was, le survivant, as Fleur still calls me, the person who should have died to save us all, who ended up living and killing and not knowing what was left to do.

So I laughed. And my breath started to come in weak gasps, yet I couldn't stop. I pair of arms snaked around me, as McGonagall kneeled before me to give me a strong hug. I had never seen her give a hug to anyone before – ever. It showed in the hug too. The hug wasn't that comforting, wasn't motherly. It didn't matter, though. The act of physical kindness from a woman usually so cold, well, it broke me.

And I cried, and cried, and cried. The sobs struck at my chest like sledgehammers, tore through me like bullets. I could keep being lyrical about this, but, truly, there isn't anything lyrical about that type of pain. It bathes your heart in ice, while simultaneously putrefying your organs. And your soul, or your magic, or whatever it is that makes you, you – well, it all feels as if it's rotting away, lifting off of you in a fog.

I awoke an indeterminable time later. I chuckled, which came out more as a wet sniffle. The sun shone brilliantly out the window. Well fuck, I really am fate's bitch.

I sat on the bed in McGonagall's east guestroom and stared off into space. After about an hour of thoughts that whirled and fluttered, but did little else, I called for a house elf. Nimmy was quiet, probably from McGonagall's orders. Nimmy usual was as vibrant as Dobby had been. Well, not quite as vibrant, but close. Nimmy popped away to get me apples, nuts, and some bacon. About ten minutes after she returned, and right when I was finishing, McGonagall entered the room.

Her face was solemn and not unkind, but she gave little indication of the warmth that she displayed last night. She sat down in the chair next to my bed. We just sat there for a while, neither looking at the other. There really wasn't anything to say. So, I asked the only question that came to me, a question that was second nature by now, a question I was accustomed to asking every day.

"What happened overnight?" Usually, the response was a casualty count.

"The parties aren't as boisterous as last time. I think everyone fears that he might not actually be gone again."

That's right. It hadn't occurred to me really, but McGonagall had been here before. Except, instead of an aged Headmaster and brilliant Sorcerer, McGonagall got me – a kid barely old enough to apparate.

"Any new casualties?" Just checking.

"Filius died of his wounds."

That was a blow, although I had expected it. Flitwick's task yesterday had been to lead the charge from north of Hogsmeade, from the grounds. It was just as if he was leading the third years for their first taste of Hogsmeade, except that his army of thirty took constant spellfire from Voldemort's army of fifty odd. Still, it allowed McGonagall, Seamus, Neville, Percy, Fred, Ernie, Susan, Cho, and myself to get outside the wards within the Forbidden Forest and apparate to the west most portion of Hogsmeade.

Flitwick's force had dropped to just over ten people by the time my group of nine hit Voldemort from the back. The last thing I saw of Flitwick's force before Voldemort came right towards me was Flitwick's shield, and Flitwick himself, fall to Dolohov, McNair, and two other Death Eaters who I couldn't see or didn't know.

"Harry?"

I shook myself. "Um… yeah. Fleur?"

"Nothing more than a shattered leg," to which I gave a shattered sigh. There was a short, uncomfortable pause. I knew something was coming that I wouldn't like. "The minister wants to put on the award ceremony this Monday in Diagon Alley."

"Well fuck me."

"Quite."

The blowing wind was my only solace. It tended to drown out Minister Edgecombe's voice. She stood on a raised stage erected before The Three Broomsticks, pompously perched on the platform ostensibly to overlook the outcome of my merciless and muddled mêlée that violently vanquished Voldemort.

Hermione would have been proud.

She didn't live long enough to appreciate my recently re-acquired love of language. The love arose as a consequence, in fact, of Hermione's death. I had always appreciated her ability to research, recover, distil, and instil information, but I had never realised quite how rare that skill was. Even Flitwick couldn't quite match it.

When left with the option of entrusting research to Neville, Susan, Ernie, Fred, Cho, or myself, I chose myself. Cho helped. But I took on the brunt of the research, doing with dint of will and liberal use of pepper-up potions what Hermione did with talent and joy.

My research wasn't just new spells; I actually delved into the heart of magic, trying to figure out how it worked, and trying to figure out what power I could possibly have that Voldemort knew not. It would be boring to recite everything I learnt, but one of the most important things was in an introductory Ancient Runes text. It said that words themselves hold power, actual, true magic. This magic appears roughly proportional to the collective power of people who use the words, over with what precision those words are used. So, theoretically the author assured us, a stunner had the potential be instantly lethal to a wizard if a bunch of sorcerers came together and made a perfectly precise language to help power their spells – theoretically.

First off, why isn't this told to every first year that walks through the doors to Hogwarts? Sure, there's an old wizards' aphorism that goes something like 'grammar is a wizard's greatest power,' but I don't think that pureblood children even understand what that's supposed to mean.

More importantly, though, the text's author was not, and most likely didn't know anyone who was, a parselmouth. Voldemort and I, however, both were. I didn't realise this until after Dumbledore died, when I started studying Voldemort on my own, but his use of parseltongue spells was actually one of the reasons that he was so feared, not as if we needed anything more to fear. Being almost unapproachably powerful, incredibly charismatic, completely methodical, relatively immortal, to say nothing of his encyclopaedic knowledge of the dark arts and his neigh messianic ability to coerce magical creatures was more than enough.

Fuck, I'm glad that bastard's dead.

"And now, Mr. Harry Potter will say some words before he's presented with his Order of Merlin."

I stood – really, really not wanting to do this. Of course, it could be worse. One of the benefits of the size of the Wizarding World, especially after three cataclysmic wars in one century, was that there only needed to be one of these award ceremonies. All of the important people who survived were here. In fact, from the size of the gathering up and down Hogsmeade, it looked like half of Wizarding Britain was here. Maybe it was only a fifth, but there certainly weren't less than fifteen hundred people here.

Shaking myself, I made my way up and grabbed Minister Edgecombe's hand. She was another waste of a politician. They should have elected Arthur. Even with only one arm and no legs, he would have been a better Minister than Edgecombe. Everyone seemed to forget that she was partly responsible for our delayed response to Voldemort. The remaining Order were also quite sure that she was responsible Charlie's loss. He disappeared trying to travel from Romania to the U.K., and it was her department that oversaw international travel.

Whether she was truly responsible or not, I don't think we'll ever know.

Still, shaking her hand made me feel slightly dirty. The rebellious teenager in me demanded that I haul Edgecombe and the whole Wizarding World onto the carpet for what they did. If I called them out, maybe they'd change, maybe they'd improve, and maybe there would be a world that would make me feel proud. The jaded warrior in me realised the truth: if I told them anything too unsettling, they'd brand me unhinged from my fighting, a wounded, noble knight who deserved respect but who could no longer be taken seriously, who had lost too many friends. Then they'd go back to their normal life.

Vox populi does not respect a hero's bled-for knowledge or his actual sacrifices, but damn do they love his mythical struggle with his mythical wisdom.

So I shook the creature's hand and stood before a sea of the grateful. Some say that underneath a cynic is a wounded idealist. I can't speak for anyone else, but I know that it's true for me. And so, unsurprisingly, as I looked out on the sea of faces, I was unexpectedly overcome with anger.

Yes, that's right, I was unsurprisingly unexpectedly overcome with anger – suck it up.

I still didn't believe that they'd listen to me if I replaced my speech with didactic syrup, but perhaps some well apportioned praise would come to the same purpose. Maybe some people would listen.

"Warlocks of the Wizarding World," I started. And here's an interesting linguistic factoid: the third person plural of a mix gender group of magic users is not "wizards ad witches," although that works, but "warlocks." 'Warlock,' singular, is rarely used, replaced usually by a gender neutral 'wizard,' but 'warlock' can be when discussing a magic user of unknown gender. That's why Dumbledore's old position was "Chief Warlock."

"Warlocks of the Wizarding World," I repeated, just so everyone knew we were on the same page. "We stand at the beginning of a new day. Voldemort is dead!" There was a cheer; and I thanked Dumbledore, and to a lesser extent Tracy Davis, for introducing enough verbal ostentatious into my diet to pull this crap off.

"And since we are now at peace," another cheer, "there is no need for fancy speeches." To say nothing, naturally, of the fact that the Minister just made a fancy speech. "For there is no longer a great struggle, our greatest struggle will be to rebuild. But as survivors, we have another burden." Pause, and I can feel what they're thinking: 'oh shit, what's he going to lay on us.'

Another interesting linguistic point: 'survivors' in French is 'Les Survivants,' or, more than one of me.

"We must remember those who have sacrificed their sweat, their tears, their bodies, and even their lives. It is these brave souls to whom I wish to dedicate my speech. But first, to all the fallen, to all those who fought, let us give a cheer." And how could they resist?

"To Albus Dumbledore – our only true protection for so long, whom some maligned when he told us what we didn't want to hear, what we so desperately needed to hear. I was with him at the end, when he stood upon the tallest tower in the Castle that had been his home for more than eighty years. Draco had been sent, under pain of death, to kill our dear Professor. And Professor Dumbledore talked him down, though he was weak and knew he would die anyways. He simply refused to let Draco stain his soul. And he was right that night."

Pause. And how they cheer for the lost wise man that they ridiculed during life.

"To Draco Malfoy," there, let them digest that, "one of the many who never had a real choice in life. His family was held at wand point. Still, when he could have killed Professor Dumbledore and wrest glory from his fellow Death Eaters, he refused. When he could have turned me over to Bellatrix Lestrange and thus lost us our war, he refused. When he could have prevented me from killing Voldemort, right at the end, he refused. Though he was held at wand point, he consistently did what was right, in his own way. There were thousands who did less than he, though he had more arrayed against him than all but the Aurors and the Order." There, let the inactive sheep suck on that.

Now, I won't tell the sheep this, but I hope that my pulling for Draco in this speech will open some doors for the poor boy. He's one of two alive whom I'm going to name, and for all his father's original wealth, Voldemort really did a good job of squandering it. Last I heard, the Malfoys had little more left than their mansion, which sounds sort of stupid when I say it that way. Nonetheless, it means that, to keep the mansion that their family has owned since the hunts of the 17th centuries, Draco is actually going to have to join the working masses, for which he is so completely unqualified.

"To Severus Snape," and now I've really confused them, "you may all remember him as… well… to be frank, as a complete and utter arse," a few chuckled at that, but most seem confused and upset. "And let me not mistake you, he actually was a complete and utter arse." There! – that's real laughter. I've relaxed them and haven't lost them yet. "Still, whatever his personal… difficulties may have been, he did more for our cause than anyone but Dumbledore or myself. From the very moment that Voldemort was reborn, after the Triwizard Tournament in my fourth year, he inserted himself among the Death Eaters. From within Voldemort's inner circle, he fought a vicious battle to keep our secrets. From within Voldemort's inner circle, surrounded by people who would kill him in the most painful ways had his true goals been discovered, he stole their secrets and saved hundreds of lives. He even was forced to kill Professor Dumbledore, a man who was like his father, to keep Draco safe, to insert himself further, and to save Dumbledore himself from a most painful, slow, gruesome death. Even at the end, when he was killed by Voldemort for no other reason than to wrest from Severus a secret Severus did not possess, Severus made sure that I would be informed of my destiny."

Some people clap. There are just enough applause for it to be only the Order and those in our extended family. They've heard this all before. I knew for about four weeks; I couldn't do anything but praise him since then. I feel really fucking weird about it too; as I said, he was a complete and utter arse.

"And let me indulge in my own reminiscence for a moment. To Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Ginny Weasley–" and I suddenly can't continue. I look over at Arthur; he's crying. For the sake of Merlin – Percy is crying. And damn, I never thought I'd see that. He didn't even cry when his mum died. He just nodded, eyes glistening, mouth twitching, and stood to secure our camp for the night.

With a shake of my head, I swallow, and try to continue. "Ron, Hermione, Ginny – thank you. Without you, more than anyone else, the war would have been lost. I would have been lost. You saved me more times than I can say." I sort of understood at this point that I wasn't talking to the crowd anymore, but it didn't matter. It's kind of like when you're drunk and talking to a bird, saying things you just know that you're going to regret the next day, but can't seem to do anything else. I had one of those days with Tonks once – told her … well, let's not go into what I told Remus's wife.

"You blokes were the best. And yes Hermione, bloke will have to do – suck it up." Distinctly I heard a couple of laughs, but I was so in my own head that they didn't even register until I was regretting this whole speech later. "Ginny, thanks for saving me from thinking Voldemort possessed me. You were a better friend than I deserved. Keep them laughing up there; you could always cheer me up. Ron, you never needed to be jealous of me. All I wanted was your family; it's funny, innit it? How you were jealous of my money and fame and I was jealous of your family – especially your mother. Still, you stuck by me when no one else would. Thanks for that. And Hermione… well, like always, you know what I want to say better than I ever could. Still, I guess you'd like to hear me say it. Isn't that what you always said? Maybe I'll just make it a gesture rather than an avalanche of words. Starting tomorrow, I'm giving two million galleons to SPEW … but I'm renaming it. Thanks."

There was a long pause now. I was too in my own head to really pay attention to anything that was happening. No one seemed to want to disturb me either. Their saviour had just spilled his guts in front of most of the Britain. That and he had just pledge two million galleons, more money than anyone else had in Britain anymore, almost as much money as the entire Black Fortune, on a cause about which only about six people in the crowd had ever heard. It was damn uncomfortable.

Eventually, Percy came up and shook me out of it. I thanked him with a shaky nod. I'd later be told that I was spacey for five minutes, which I took to mean just about a minute. People are so damn bad at keeping proper time.

"And finally, to Arthur Weasley, the steadiest, kindest, and one of the most capable men I've ever had the good fortune to know. He kept us informed when Fudge refused to accept that Voldemort had returned. He even was attacked for his trouble, poisoned by a giant snake. He helped Scrimgeour when he was minister, and was one of the few ministry employees to survive the Minister's assassination, fighting off three Death Eaters by himself. He then lost his legs and, far more tragically, his wife successfully protecting his children and Minster Abbot. Now, though he lost more than any man still living, he helps Minister Edgecombe and her ministry. He should be receiving this medal."

There is a pause and I could almost feel Minister Edgecombe's glare at my back.

"So, as I receive the Order of Merlin, First Class, let us stand a give a cheer for those who also deserve recognition. After me everyone," and everyone does stand. "Albus Dumbledore!" Either because of my oratory, or because of the man himself, there is a rather deafening cheer. Rita Skeeter – bite me.

"To Draco Malfoy!" The cheer is considerably lessened, but it's there.

"To Severus Snape!" Another cheer, even softer now. I think everyone's still confused as to why their cheering the two most responsible for Dumbledore's death right after they cheered for the man himself.

Then, without my voice breaking even, I say, "To Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Ginevra Weasley!" Ginny would kill me for the use of her full name, but Molly would be pleased and all the lads would be grinning like idiots. The cheer here, I'm glad to see, is deafening – even moreso than for Dumbledore.

"And finally, for Arthur Weasley – the finest man I know!" And the crowd is hysterical.

I'm happy to know that I can deliver a good speech. Still, I get out of there before Minister Edgecombe can corner me.

Less than a month later, I'm lying on the floor of a flat I think I own in Hogsmeade. I don't really know what's going on, but Percy is yelling at me about something. I can't really seem to figure out what it is. I assume it's my fault, since it usually is, but it's all so damn confusing. His bird's a looker, though, whoever she is. She looks familiar, but she doesn't look like Penelope. Of course, it's been several years since I've seen the enigmatic Ravenclaw, and I don't really know what became of her during the war.

I realise after – well, a while – of staring at the totty that I was making her uncomfortable. She'd been blushing for a while, but I hadn't figured out why. I tried zoning back into what Percy was saying.

"… distinguishing… hero of the… the dirtiest pub… and to think that Ron and Ginny… Hermione… my father would… but no… McGonagall wants to come here… bits from the tallest tower… Morgana's Tits, I tell you… and Dumbledore's portrait…"

I interrupt. "Huh?" Maybe not my most eloquent, but it'll have to do.

Except it doesn't. He's still going. "… Snape would have… sniffing potions… Teddy… and Winky are… but no… well fuck me… started on Draco…"

I try again. "Wha…?"

But he's worse than Hagrid when the Half-Giant saw a dangerous creature. "… the Burrow… Kretcher at Grimmauld…"

"Bu.. huh?"

"… Marauder spirit… started on Fred and George…"

Finally, I get some relief. The bird speaks up, "Percy, stop." Her tone is mild, yet it stops him in his tracks.

"What?" he asks her, completely flatfooted.

I zone out for a while after that, don't know how long. Then a potion is thrust into my hand. I almost drop it, but manage to keep hold of it – seeker skills to the rescue. I bow to the bird, almost falling over in the process, and I can't read her response.

There's a pause in which I'm staring at the two of them and they're staring right back at me.

"Well drink the potion Potter!" That's Percy. And Merlin he's a pain.

But I do anyways. The world instantly stops spinning. I double over and let loose the dogs of my stomach – all over the table in what I'm rapidly coming to understand is not my apartment but Aberforth's pub.

"Fuck me Perce. You could have warned a bloke. And where's the Ashwood and Viper Venom? You know that takes the bite out of a hangover."

His answer really demonstrates how pissed I was. It's simple and to the point: "I added them."

So we don't talk for a while after that. Percy's huffing away as if he ran a mile. I'm sitting – standing – here, trying to steady my stomach. The bird cleans my sick up. And I cast a room cleanser by habit. Then I realise that my habit was picked up from the amount of strongholds I raided, and the amount of people I killed, and I spew again.

This time I clean it up, and smile up at totty, saying, "Not that this is the best way to meet someone, but, hey, I'm Harry Potter."

The thought of introducing myself is kind of ridiculous. She seems to enjoy it, though. Or she thinks I'm an idiot. Either way, she snorts and says "I'm Melinda Bole."

I recognise the name. She was a Gryffindor prefect during my younger years. But Percy let's me know that I know her more recent work, "She was Terrance Higgs's girlfriend."

"Ah, Jill."

"No," Melinda puts in as if I'm deaf or dumb or both, "Melinda."

I get her confusion, but it doesn't make it any less amusing. "No… no, Jill is what we called you when we were around others." Then I realise exactly what she's done for us, and I actually hug her. She seems taken aback by this for some reason. "Thank you, thank you," I say.

See, Jill, or Melinda as her name apparently actually is, played a sycophantic girlfriend to the egotistical Terence Higgs. Higgs was the Seeker for Slytherin my first year. He was a jerk, but actually a better flyer than Draco. None of that matters, of course, it's just interesting background. At least to me it is. But I'm getting off topic.

Anyways – my point was that Higgs got beat out of his spot in his seventh year, after being on the team since his second year, because a pin-prick of a boy without much real talent bought his way onto the Slytherin team. He stewed his whole Seventh year, but ended up doing quite well on his NEWTs and going off to a luminous and boring career as a Ministry flunky.

He wasn't even a very successful Ministry flunky, and three years after he joined the Ministry, he had still yet to be promoted. Even Percy was promoted above him, which actually shouldn't have surprised anyone because Percy's scary smart. Regardless, when Voldemort returned, Lucius had the brilliant idea of using Draco's humiliation of Higgs combined with Percy's humiliation of Higgs, combined yet again with a promotion to get Higgs to join up.

As far as we could ever tell, Terence was actually the first new Death Eater. He was quickly installed into the Floo Department to watch, irony of ironies, the present Minister of Magic. Ms. Edgecombe was a loosely aligned pureblood whom Voldemort wanted to convert, and move slowly towards his side. He wanted control over the Floo for his final take over. Terence was one of the others who set up the nets that probably caught and killed Charlie. With some well-placed flattery by the newest Death Eater, along with some crushing financial defeats by other Death Eaters posing as 'mudbloods,' Voldemort was able to control Ms. Edgecombe almost entirely by the end of the year.

It would have worked perfectly but for two things. First, when Voldemort was outed at the end of my Fifth year, Ms. Edgecombe fell in line with the new minster, and quit all of her pureblood clubs, trying to distance herself from Voldemort's cause as quickly as possible. Even more importantly, though, was that Terence Higgs had gotten himself a girlfriend – Melinda.

The first night she slept at his place, she awoke in the middle of the night to hear him at the Floo. From snippets of conversation, combined with things her younger brother Ernst had been saying, and she was able to figure out that Higgs was in bed with – poor choice of words, now that I've thought it over – Death Eaters. She was friends with Percy, as they had been Prefects together, and came to him with her concerns. Though Percy had yet to reconcile with his family, he still set her up in a meeting with Bill.

From there, she was unofficially named 'Jill,' and took on the role of spymaster extraordinaire. Or is that spy-mistress extraordinaire. Either way, for over two years, we knew almost everything that Higgs knew, thanks to her. We were able to support Snape's credibility as a spy thanks to her. We were even able to stop a massacre in Galway because of her. Sans Snape, she was our most valuable spy.

So, I guess that leads me to hugging her and chanting "thank you" into her, admittedly rather nice, hair. She pats me on the back awkwardly, and I feel as if I've overstayed my welcome. Still, I can't bring it in myself to stop.

Eventually, Percy jolts me. Better yet, he explains why he interrupted a perfectly good drunken night. "Harry – stop! I swear, Melinda, he's not usually like this. What the daemon is wrong with you mate?"

I disentangle myself from Jill – Melinda – and look at them. Jill is bright red. Percy's wide eyed and seems fairly nervous.

"What'd you interrupt me for then?"

"McGonagall and Dumbledore's portrait want you. Also, my dad wants you to stop sulking."

"I'm not sulking!"

"You were drunk and it's not even – _zeit_– three in the afternoon yet."

"I'm not usually drunk this early."

"From what Abe tells me, you were like this since last night."

"It's also not comforting that you had to qualify that with "this early," that was Melinda. And, sadly, she has a good point.

"Still's not usual."

"Drunk often or not, you're still sulking."

"Am not"

"Are too"

"Am not"

"Are—"

"—Oh will you lads just stop it!" She's kinda cute when she's angry.

"You're kinda cute when you're angry." And I can't believe that that just came out of my mouth. She goes bright red again, even cuter.

Percy then tries to get control of the situation. "Okay… whatever. Melinda and I are here to escort you to the Headmistress's office."

I remember asking her if she had some polyjuice when he says "mistress" and I start to giggle. Maybe I have lost it a little. Percy surely seems to think so if the boogie-eyed stare is anything to go by. Melinda's still bright red. Damn it's easy to make her go red. I'm sort of amazed that she made such a good spy if she's so easy to read.

"Okay, the cat lady wants me? Why?"

"Would you stop calling her that!" Percy, normally so calm, soft, and reserved, really shows that he's a Weasley when he gets annoyed. Melinda just seems flabbergasted at my disrespect.

Percy's a good bloke, but, even after fighting a war, he's still a stickler for respect. Though, I guess he's not quite so intense about the rules now. Still, it's fun to take the mickey out of him. "What? Would you prefer I called her 'the old pussy'?"

Given the disgust on his face, I'm guessing the answer is no.

Then we hear laughter. We both turn towards Melinda, and she's holding her stomach and pretty soon she's gasping for breath. I guess she got over her awe at my audacity rather quickly.

"I like her."

"Shut up Harry."

"Yes sir!"

"What did I just say?"

"Shut up Percy."

"See, even the totty agrees." Pause with some female laughter and two rising blushes. "Did I – really – just fucking say that out loud?"

"McGonagall's Office. Now."

And so we went. The walk was fairly easy going. We didn't talk much, though I kept catching Melinda giving me the eye. She either wanted to kill me enthusiastically, or shag me violently. The problem was that I couldn't figure out which one it was. I figured about just asking her, but, given the day, I thought I'd leave it alone for a while. Soon enough, we found ourselves before the gargoyle.

Percy says, "Reconstruction," and we enter.

I miss Dumbledore's passwords. If nothing else, they made you hungry. McGonagall's version of the office was different too. Whereas Dumbledore had splashes of colour everywhere and thousands of shiny whirling instruments, McGonagall had several pictures, and then simply walls of bookcases. It was very dull. She did, however, still have the pictures of Headmasters past. And lemon drops. She still had lemon drops.

Dumbledore's portrait hung off towards McGonagall's left, and so he and his omni-twinkle-ness was the first thing we saw.

"Harry my dear boy!" That got McGonagall's attention. And Aberforth's too, it seemed.

"Hey Professor."

"Albus dear boy, Albus. After all, I can't be your Professor if I'm dead."

"Have you told that to Professor Binns?"

He – or, more accurately, it – laughed good naturedly. "I, uh, guess not, no. Bobby does seem to have an insistent need to hold on."

"Bobby? His name is Bobby Binns?"

"Well, his name isn't Robert, but, as young men, we took to calling each other Robert, and it just sort of spiralled from there."

"Wait... you just took to calling each other Robert?" The portrait nodded. "Whatever for?"

"Well, you see—"

A throat clearing interrupted us. McGonagall smiled slightly, as if in apology, and we got onto more important things – like the actual point of the meeting. That is, after Percy and Melanie left. They were simply an escort apparently.

"So, Albus has something he'd like to share with you Harry."

I raise my eyes and he smiles benignly within his frame. I really have to remind myself that it's an 'it.' But the likeness, physically and personally, is astonishing. I finger his old wand, feeling its warmth. It's slightly comforting, and I can almost feel his magic surround me. He seems to know what I'm doing, as his smile slips slightly. I mean, it seems to know what I'm doing – damn.

When the painting spoke, it – finally – didn't have even a trace of sadness in his – damnit – voice. "We spoke once about retreating in time to rescue me from death, do you remember?"

"Yeah, it was in October that first year, after the first couple of missions, after we lost Bill and Mad-Eye. I didn't know how I was going to win."

"Ah yes, do you remember why we couldn't do it?"

"There were hundreds of reasons we couldn't do it."

"Specific reasons yes, but what about the general reasons."

"Paradoxes – no one knows what we do if you fuck with paradoxes." McGonagall barely let out a low growl, which really, really sounded like a cat by the way, at my curse. During the war, she went on a surprising number of raids with us, and so she'd sort of become inoculated to the cursing. I keep telling her to blame the Weasley boys, but she seems to have a problem with blaming dead people.

"And when you asked me what would happen, what did I say?"

"Um..." I actually had to think about this one. It was so long ago and I threw the idea away, so, well, I guess what I'm trying to say is there isn't that much room up in my head and I need all the space I can get. "You said that I could destroy the fabric of space-time as we knew it, thus killing everyone everywhere for all time," that one stuck, mostly because it sounded so bloody cool. "You also said that a paradox might be impossible, and so I could be stuck reliving what at that time was the worst five months of my life. You also suggested that, when I came to a paradox, I would randomly be sucked back into the past, and have to re-do the whole thing over again until I could finagle it such that there would be no paradoxes. You said I might be thrust into an alternate universe, and so all the people I knew at home would be lost and gone and the world into which I travelled could be anything from a utopia to a place like now where everyone's dead, yet I'd still have to kill Voldemort. You even said that I could be thrust into a world where I was the right hand of Voldemort, which would be horrid in so many ways I can't begin to innumerate."

"And, you're missing one very important one. The one you're missing is so like you too."

"Huh? Oh! Everything could be fine and we could have won the war without any of the casualties."

"Precisely. Now, the real question is, if you had to face Voldemort right now, could you kill him again."

"Right this second?"

"Let's say we give it a day or two."

I look down at myself, not really liking where this whole conversation was going. Over the course of the war, I developed a keen sense at determining when I was about to be polled in the ass. I was getting that feeling now. It seemed in the month since Voldemort's defeat, I'd gained a few pounds, and I could almost feel how lazy my magic had become.

"Um... give me a week, maybe two, and it's a sure thing." As much as this stuff is ever a sure thing anyways. "Send me now, and I could drive him back if we weren't in a pitched fight, but I most likely wouldn't kill him and he could quite possibly kill me."

"Good. Good. I think we found a way to stop the second war entirely."

"What!" Yeah, wasn't expecting that. I was expecting to have to be dragged back to before the final fight, maybe save a few more lives while my other self was killing Voldemort or something.

But Dumbledore wasn't done yet. "And, perhaps, save your parents lives as well."

I collapsed. It wasn't dignified really, but I bet anyone else in those circumstances would do the same thing. Seriously – 100 galleons? No? Fine!

"But... what about space time continuum stuff..."

"This is a different sort of time travel, similar to a time turner. After all, you didn't think we'd give Ms. Granger anything too dangerous as a third year, did you?" That was McGonagall.

"But doesn't that only send you back so far? Something like no more than a full day, right?"

"Correct," Dumbledore – the living one, "but this would not be a time turner, just similar in how it works. This would send you back in time in your current body. You would arrive in the past, completely decoupled from your original continuum, and live as if you were a natural player in the new continuum."

That didn't quite make sense at first, but after a while, I seemed to get it, "So... wait... if you're sending me back to 1981 or somewhere similar, then what you're saying is that I arrive in time to save myself from being marked and my parents from death, kill Voldemort, and then, during the years from that time until forever, I live like normal, as if I had been born in" – I did the math quickly – "1963."

"More or less," said the dead Dumbledore. "Of course, you'd still have to kill Voldemort, destroy his horcruxes, and then make a life for yourself. You wouldn't have Ron, Ginny, or Hermione except as, eventually, much younger versions of people who would only look similarly, without the same experiences. But, you wouldn't ever have to worry about paradoxes arising from meeting your past self. Most importantly, you'd have your parents, and, if I may be so bold, you'd have Minerva and me."

I swished this around in my mind for a while. It sounded far too good to be true. Seriously, leaving this whole shit-world behind. Don't get me wrong, having Voldemort dead is nice, but there's nothing for me to do now. The ministry can't stand me. They feel as if every time I step anywhere near them, I detract from their legitimacy; in their defence, I they're probably right. McGonagall won't hire me, saying that, even with all my experience, I was too young. I needed a mastery before she'd accept me, apparently. That didn't seem to have stopped Lockhart or Moony, but I guess (read: know) that the old cat is a little more prickly about the rules than Dumbledore was.

I even thought that I'd be a shoe-in for a Quidditch team. I'm, if I must say, rather fucking fantastic, and my name brings with it its own sort of magic. Yet, even with that I'm out of luck. Apparently, when you become too magical, no one wants you. It's like how Dumbledore found himself, after a while, on the outskirts of Ministry politics. Unless a group absolutely needed him, no one wanted to touch him. They feared that it would raise the ire of all the other groups. They didn't want to be overpowered later. The Quidditch teams seemed to think similarly. I was told quite plainly that they'd love to see me play for England, but no national team would take me.

Well fuck that. A walk back through history sounded like just the thing to get my blood flowing. Yet, right as I opened my mouth to agree, I realised that my feeling of being polled was increasing.

So, instead of accepting, I asked, "wait, what's the catch? How can I travel back there now when I couldn't travel back before?"

Dumbledore, the dead one, smiled, as if I had gotten a question right in his class. McGonagall scowled, as if worried. Dumbledore, the live one, just looked bored. I wondered what he was doing here. He'd been a fairly good spy during the war, but not very cooperative beyond simply passing snippets of information over.

The portrait spoke, "Well, this method functions under the alternative universe theory and is absolutely safe, we're sure of that."

"How are you sure?"

"It's the only one that's been used."

"By whom?"

"Merlin of course!"

"Right... of course." There's a pause as I realise that he didn't really answer my question. Then I realise that he did; like usual, though, he wanted me to discover it for myself. "Okay, so you didn't tell me this before because, if I'd taken it, you'd be left here to fight Voldemort by yourself and end up being fucked anyways." I didn't say it with any malice, but McGonagall still looked like I'd knifed her kidney or strangled her kitten or something.

That's a thought on which you never really want to dwell. What would happen if McGonagall, when in cat form, got impregnated by a male cat? It's the stuff of nightmares, I tell you. But it's still interesting. Similarly, if I took polyjuice to become a woman and got impregnated, and I kept taking polyjuice for nine months, making sure I took it every hour, could I deliver a baby? Finally, what happens to the baby if I change back after only five months, or could I not get pregnant to begin with?

These unsolved problems bother me. Ginny always hated when I asked those questions.

"Right." It was alive Dumbledore, and he brought me back to reality, though I was confused at first. I had forgotten what we were talking about.

Soon enough, I was back on track. "Okay, any other little snags or set-backs?"

Now all three looked uncomfortable. Ah, here comes the poll up the ass. "Well..." trailed off dead Dumbledore. I absent-mindedly wondered what he was worried about. It wasn't like I could kill him again. "There are only a couple of times back to which they can actually send you. You could to arrive ten minutes before you become a horcrux."

"Okay. That doesn't sound so bad. Why are you looking as if someone die... oh." See, I was an accidental horcrux, which meant that Voldemort didn't need to spend the half hour preparing the place. And, my father and mother both died before me. If they delayed him too long, if my mum delayed him too long, or if Voldemort waited after killing my parents to gloat, to talk to any of his followers, to set up another ritual, to savour the experience, or if any 1001 things that could have happened actually did happen, then I could arrive and my father and or my mother could already be dead. "Well... fuck."

"There is another option—"

"—No Abe!"

"Wait," I said to the two Dumbledores, "what other option?"

"It's too risky." That's McGonagall, but the portrait is nodding along.

"For you or me?"

"You," said the live Dumbledore.

"Then I should make that determination." I gave the painting my stare of death. The painting was sometimes far too lifelike.

With a grave and put upon sigh, the painting said, "Well, they could also send you back ten minutes before you were born, which, while not the most pleasant place to find yourself suddenly or for your parents to find you suddenly, does not carry the risk that your parents would be dead already. The danger is that you're... well..."

"Rather unique," put in the other Dumbledore.

"You can't be "'rather' unique" said two irate warlocks and one irate painting simultaneously. "'Unique' is an absolute," finished Harry.

Aberforth just brushed it off. Albus's portrait continued, "Given your unique magical experience, we're not sure what could happen. The magic would send you back to a beacon, where your magical signature exists, which is why we'd do this in Godric's Hollow. But we don't know where Voldemort was on the night of your birth. If he happens to be in Albania—"

"—which isn't out of the realm of possibility," supplied McGonagall.

"Then, given that you had his magical signature on you for so long, you could wind up being pulled both towards Voldemort's current location and your own almost born location."

"Lots of guts and ... well, just guts." Aberforth peddled the idea like I would have peddled it to Ron – with jokes and subtle insults to my courage. It made me smile. I wondered if he was a pyromaniac, or just a sadist.

"But if he's in England?"

"You should be fine, no matter where he is in England."

"Then I'll do that one Albus." I was slightly shocked that I took him up on the offer to call him Albus, but calling them both Dumbledore was getting bloody confusing.

"Harry..."

"No – if I'm going to go back to save my parents, I might as well, you know, actually save my parents. We can't be sure about that in the other one. We can be sure about that here."

"So long as he's in England," said McGonagall with heavy scepticism.

"So long as he's in England," I agreed. After a moment, I realised another thing. "It also means we can do this right now. If I'm sent back to my birth, then I will have over a year to train. I don't need to worry about it right now." Well, if that wasn't just a fucked up sentence, I don't know what would be.

McGonagall seemed deeply uncomfortable with the idea. Her frown was pronounced, almost exaggeratedly so. Albus just looked sad. Aberforth, I couldn't read.

McGonagall spoke up, "Harry, think this through. Do you really want to jump back into war so fast?"

Her tone was pleading, and I found myself surprised by how powerful the appeal was. I guess it hadn't really occurred to me that what I'd just agreed to was essentially starting the whole war over again.

"I..." I didn't know how to respond, actually. "I... well... everyone's dead. You're alive. Fleur's alive. Percy's alive. But, well," I just shrugged, throwing my hands up at the same time. I had a sad, defeated smile on my face.

I think she got it, for her eyes softened. "But after so many years, you're free."

Freedom – what I always wished for during the war. I wished that I'd have the freedom to pursue my dreams. I wished I have freedom to enjoy the simple pleasures of a warm, sunny day, without the fear of hovering horror or of my responsibility to Britain. I wished for a freedom of soul. I wished for happiness.

It was only in my deepest bits of despair, when I huddled close to whomever I was going with that week, when I ever asked myself whether those dreams actually existed, whether they were actually possible, and if anyone ever really had those pleasures.

So I turned to look at the painting. "When you and Grindelwald had your summer of scheming," his lip twitched at my phrasing, "did you feel free?"

"At moments." My glare answered his pathetic attempt. So he continued, "But no, we felt trapped. Part of the reason that we dreamt so much was that, despite floo and apparition and portkey, well, portkey hadn't been invented yet, so, despite floo and apparition, we felt as if the world was slowly passing us by."

"In other words, you felt as if you were missing something." The portrait nodded sadly. I turned to McGonagall. "I don't know if my parents are that thing. I don't know if I'll ever find it, even when I have them. But I'm pretty sure that I'll never find it here, not with everyone dead. Not with... well, everyone, everything..." I trailed off. They understood.

So that was the end of the debate.

"It won't be quite as simply as leaving right now, though," said Aberforth.

I was about to ask why, but McGonagall spoke up, "we want to send you as close to your past self as can be. It will help the transition. We also need to set up a ritual circle."

"So, Godric's Hallow in ... how long will you need?"

"Tomorrow, noon. Get to the house and we'll be there."

I nod and turn to leave. I can feel their sad gazes on my back. As I open the door, I realise with a start how silent the other portraits of Headmasters past have been. Even Phineas hasn't said anything, though he's watching the last black walk from history. I don't know exactly what the conversation must have been like to ensure their silence, but I can't imagine it was anything less than brutal.

"And Professors, Abe – thanks."

With that, I leave. I still have some preparations to make.

And part of my plans, she waits at the bottom of the stairs. "Hey Perce, Ms. Totty... I mean Melina."

She smiles this time, without blushing much. "Hello yourself Mr. Hero. Did they assign you any damsels for the saving? Any dragons for the slaying?"

"I don't slay dragons, just out-fly them. And, though there are no damsels in distress, quite, there is a damsel who took time out of her day to escort me to the castle, and I think I should repay that, don't you?"

"Hey – what about me?"

"Shush, Perce, I'm working. So, what do you think?"

Now she's blushing again. "Being repaid by the saviour of the world... I'll have to think about that." We both laugh.

Percy just rolls his eyes. "It seems you're unharmed. I'll return to the office. Melinda," she nods her head, but doesn't take her eyes away from me, "I'll tell them that you're taking the rest of the day off." He leaves with a sad, inevitable laugh.

"So," she says, "what do you have in mind?"

"Well..." I let myself appear to be thinking, "I need to go to Diagon Alley to pick up some stuff anyways. If you would do the honour of accompanying me, I'm sure we can find a nice restaurant to visit."

"What do you have to do?"

"I'll show you."

"And so then, what do I do. We've learnt only one spell, but even that doesn't pop into my head. Nope – I jump on the back of the bloody thing, my nose goes right up its wand... I mean, wand up nose."

We're both laughing uproariously. Part of it's the wine, sure, but most of it is the tales. Tales of danger, daring, and certain death are, when told in the right tone of voice, bloody hilarious.

"What did you do then?"

"Well... there wasn't much I could do, was there? I'm an eleven year old rail thin little tyke hanging onto the back of a bloody mountain troll for dear life. I mean, I now realise that the thing was just a runt – only eight foot tall. But put that in front of most adult warlocks and see how well they do!"

I give her a saucy little wink, and take another sip of my wine. "Nah – it was Ron, the little blighter. Percy's brother, he up and uses the only real spell we'd learnt so far. Wingardium Leviosa, he says, completely ignoring the fact that just that morning he got the spell wrong and that's why Hermione's in the bloody toilet in the first place. Nope, he up and uses the spell. And guess what? It works! The bloody thing – the club – lifts into the air. Well, he's so shocked, he releases the spell immediately, and down it goes. Boom! Right on the troll's head it lands. The troll's knocked out, just like that." I snap my fingers.

And we're both laughing away. Getting the stuff I needed at Diagon Ally was easy. The fact that Melinda got to see just how rich Harry James Potter was didn't hurt the night I had planned either. We wondered around the Ally for a while, and she continued to pester me about what I was doing. I got out of it by half truths and some misdirection. I'm pretty sure she now thinks I'm taking a vacation, planning to buy a rather large tropical island, or hoping to invade a small country in the Balkans.

Then I took her to Ferran's, a nice little Spanish place off Diagon Alley. The owner moved here just after the first Blood War ended, and I saved him during an attack on Diagon Alley shortly after the second one began. Free food, free wine, and pretty much any table I want – forever and whenever. It's rather nice. Melinda enjoyed it too.

Two bottles of wine down, and we flooed back to my manor. Kretcher kept it clean, which is good, 'cause I've kinda been a slob for the past month. We sat down in the lounge I made out of Sirius's old bedroom. I thought he'd appreciate the number of women I attempted to seduce in the room. I imagine he'd also find it fairly amusing how seldom I succeeded.

This one seems to be working though.

As if she was reading his mind, Melinda asked, "So, Mr. Potter, does this night live up to your expectations?"

"I'll tell you in the morning."

She laughs – still surprised by my audacity. Snape ended up being right; I am an arrogant little prick. I hope the old prick would find it funny that it's the only way I could get my Occlumency to work. Sadly, I don't actually think he'd appreciate the irony.

"So sure of yourself, aren't you Mr. Saviour-of-Britain? Well, let me tell you, stories of your eleven year old self sticking your wand up a troll's nose aren't the way into a girl's heart."

"Where would you prefer I stick my wand?"

"Harry!" She's laughing again.

"I don't think I could stick my wand into myself. Not without the help of a healer or three, at least."

"Stop, stop stop!" The next day I'll realise that I'm not really as funny as I now think I am, but it still feels pretty great now.

About eight hours later my wand shoots out an annoying whine, kind of like a tea kettle boiling. I turn over and hit it, a result of being raised by muggles. Hitting the wand doesn't actually do anything usually. This time, though, it makes the whole situation worse. My wand falls to the ground.

Luckily, I'm no normal wizard. I yell out "_Finite Incantatem!_" The buzzing stops immediately. Sometimes, it's good to be me.

Turning over, I look into the bleary eyes of Melinda. She groans. I chuckle a little.

"What time is it?" Her voice is raspy. I can tell we'll both have hangovers today.

"Kretcher!" I say instead. He pops into existence, and I tell him, without turning around, "please make us some breakfast and bring it to the lounge." Then I answer Melinda's question, "I have no idea."

"Huh?" I don't think she remembers asking the question.

"I don't know what time it is."

"Just use your wand." She says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"It's on the floor."

"Huh? How'd you make it stop then?"

"I'm Harry Potter."

"I know you're Harry Potter. You're the most famous wizard in the world, and I did just slept with you. How does that have anything to do with – Oh."

"Yup."

I smile, even through the hangover. She doesn't seem to have quite the fortitude that I do. Her glare is the only response I get. Then she closes her eyes, and buries her face under her pillow.

The thought of going back to sleep is fairly appealing, but, I have a date with destiny soon. I had set my wand to wake me up after eight hours. Problem was, I have no idea at what time I set it. With a whispered, "_accio_," I have the wand in my hand. With a silent _zeit_, I discover it's just after half ten. I have less than ninety minutes.

"Bugger me."

"I already did that," comes the muffled and sleepy reply.

"Very well too, I might add." I pause to see if she's going to continue the witty banter. She isn't. "But no, that's not what I was talking about. I have a meeting with McGonagall in just over an hour."

"Oh bugger me."

"I already did that."

"Shut up."

Yeah – definitely not good with the hangover. With a mighty stretch, I pop a couple of the bones in my back. I am so out of shape; it's pathetic. Being only half-awake, I mutter that aloud.

"It didn't seem to slow you down last night." Melinda has freed her head from the pillows, and is now blearily looking up at me from the bed.

I just sort of smile at her. It's probably not a very good smile. My brain really isn't up to this. She shoots back a coy smile, which makes me hope that my smile isn't as deformed as I feel it probably is. Then her smile turns mischievous. With unbelievably strong arms, I am pulled atop her.

Well, the day could start worse.

"Harry, you're late!"

I've popped into existence outside the memorial for my parents; then I made my way through the illusion. There was a long hallway, mostly burnt out at this point. At the end of the hallway sits a broad, sunlit kitchen. That's where the ritual will be performed. The nursery was right above the kitchen, so it was pretty much left unmolested.

It's almost half twelve. Melinda and I finished a little too quickly for my tastes, or my pride, but I couldn't quite leave without a shower. The thought of facing my parents smelling of sex, even if those parents would be only four years older than me, was far from palatable.

Speaking of palatable, I also had to eat breakfast. It turned out I was rather famished.

"Yeah... yeah... sorry. Complication."

"Since when did Miss Bole become a complication?" Aberforth really is a mean old man. I glare at him and get a wink for my trouble.

"Mr. Potter!"

I just wave McGonagall off before she can even start to think to plan to build up a full head of steam. "Professor – you're a doll, but I really, really don't want to have this conversation right now."

"I won't get another chance at it!"

"If I promised you that I'd tell your doppelganger and allow her to yell at me, would you let me go without making my ears bleed?"

She studies me for a while, probably trying to figure out if I'm serious. The depressing thing is that, if she agrees, I will end up informing her past counterpart. I'm not very good at not fulfilling promises. After staring at me a while, she nods. I let out a deep sigh. After a pause, she adds, "Plus, she won't understand the extenuating circumstances like I do and is likely to be far less lenient than I am."

"Fuck me."

"Quite."

There is a chuckle from the wall. I jump and my first impulse is still to go for my wand. Luckily, even Aberforth isn't going to begrudge me those reflexes. The chuckle dies too.

"Sorry dear boy. I thought you knew I'd be here." It's Professor Dumbledore's portrait.

"How would I know?"

"Well, you knew that I grew up here, did you not?"

"Of course I knew you grew up here. This's where you..." I shot a glance at Aberforth. I could tell, even at this distance, that his eyes were glazed with the pain of his sister's loss. "Um..." I shot a look at McGonagall. She seemed unsure; whether that stemmed from ignorance or indecision, I didn't know. "Anyways... wait. Do you mean that you grew up here, as in Godric's Hollow, or here, as in here, here – in this house?"

"Here here, as you so eloquently put it, as in this house. I lent this house to your parents, and then committed it to posterity when you defeated Tom the first time."

"Ah" The thought that Albus owned the house is actually fairly comforting. It means that he gave away a piece of his own property, not mine, when he dedicated the house to posterity.

A deep pause then stretches during which I look at McGonagall and Albus. They had been so helpful, and so infuriating, over the last seven, almost eight, years. After what feels like forever, I nod to them. "Thank you."

McGonagall is teary-eyed. And she actually hugs me again. She just walks right up to me and wraps me in a hug. I give it back to her threefold. We stand there long enough that, had Ron and Ginny still been around, I'd be fairly embarrassed. I think Hermione'd understand though.

When we break apart, I look towards Dumbledore's portrait. "I'm ready sir."

His response is to nod and then to look at me. Portraits can't cry, and a crying Dumbledore would be even odder than a crying McGonagall, I think, but I can tell by the waver in his smile that this is hard for him too.

"Step into that circle Harry."

The circle is made of what appears to be pulverised rubies, with some gold dust, and several other substances added. The magical property of substances, outside of potions of course, is not a field with which many are comfortable. I'm certainly not. Albus's portrait and Filius were training Hermione when she died, and I still remember her marvelling about the power of emeralds. Anyways, long story short, this looks really powerful.

And it is. I step over the threshold and it's as if I'm in the middle of a supercharged ward. No one has even cast a bloody thing yet, and I still feel somewhat intoxicated by the circle's power. This journey is going to be weird.

I almost regret it too. I can feel a grip of fear in me, a small little thrill that tells me I should stay here. I should go out and find myself a good bird. Maybe eight good birds – I'm the Man-who-Conquered, I could get away with unapologetic polygamy. I could live the rest of my life in a pleasure garden. I could probably even elect myself Minister of Magic and do nothing with the title. Or I could do anything I wanted – pass all those social programs Hermione wanted.

But by the time I look up to those who are here to spirit me towards my past, I know that I'm not going to back down. I'm not made for sitting by the side lines. Maybe one day another Dark Lord would arise here and I might be called again, but that would be years, probably decades of lethargy. I can't do that.

And as for being a politician – well, Albus might have made his inter-war years wrestling with politicians and getting Hogwarts ordered. I wouldn't have the patience for the former and McGonagall won't let me do the latter.

Voldemort was rather right in the end; he and I were quite a lot alike. Tom Riddle had the skills to become the most charismatic and persuasive politician we'd seen for hundreds of years, perhaps ever. Yet he couldn't do it; he couldn't take the time; he was too impatient with other people, too resistant to having to slowly convince people of his point. He wanted action. So, he delved into the depths of magic instead and became the most fearsome dark lord in hundreds of years, perhaps ever.

I too am too impatient for politics, though I have a similar ability to become the most persuasive politician of the past several hundred years. Yet, I thrive too much on battle and conflict, though luckily was spared the blood lust that drove Riddle mad. And now I stand in a circle that would thrust me into the past so I can fight all over again the war I'd just won. Well, here goes nothing.

"Harry." I looked up into the painting of Albus. "When you get there, if you can't convince your parents or you can't convince me, remember the phrase 'wer ist der Dieb, unbemerkt tötet, wenn Sie fliehen aus seinem Stream.' It'll tell me that you know of my search with Gellert for immortality."

"Um... sir, I haven't learnt German yet. I don't know what that means, and I don't think that I'll remember it."

The painting seemed to think, "then try the French: Qui est le voleur qui tue indétectable, sauf si vous fuir son flux."

I sound its meaning out in my head. "Who is the thief who kills undetectably unless if you flee him flow?" Okay, I'm confused.

Dumbledore seems somewhat pained. "Literal... too literal. I would translate it thusly: 'Who is the thief who undetectably kills unless you flee from his river.' The answer is 'time' or, as I'm sure you know 'le temp'"

"Um... okay. And that's going to tell the past you what exactly?"

"That I had confided in you."

"You make things too complicated. Why can't I just tell you what I know about Grindelwald?"

"Oh... um... how curious. I would never have thought of that." There is a pause in which I shake my head in equal parts disgust and amusement. "My way is much more specific and will ensure I know that you've either talked to Gellert or myself."

With a snort, I let just the amusement play out across my voice as I say, "Okay. Thanks Professor."

"One more thing dear boy."

Oh by Merlin's soggy nuts, what now? "Yes Professor?"

"Remember that you are stuck there. So find a good woman, enjoy your time with your parents, go back and finish your schooling, and go find a career, or a project, you love."

My smile is genuine now. "Sounds great Professor, but are you sure I need only one woman?"

"Mr. Potter!" But the chuckles of the Dumbledores drown out McGonagall's anger.

I give McGonagall a lopsided grin, and she huffs. It's a little terrifying that I can see Hermione in most of her actions. I wonder how much time they truly spent together while I was at Quidditch or in detention or if they're distantly related. "Okay, let's get this thing done with."

I am told to stand facing north. McGonagall stands to the northwest, while Aberforth takes up the southeast. I'm not sure why the locations matter; I'd never learnt that much about ritual magic, but Albus is directing them with uncharacteristic seriousness. I just stand there staring at McGonagall and Albus, wondering if, meeting them for the first time as an adult, I could actually build a relationship based on equal trust and if we could work together as equals to kill Voldemort. For, even after all this time, I still felt fairly thrust to the side during the war. It was only when they needed me, or only when I forced the issue, that they took me on as an equal partner, and even then, with great reluctance.

In complete fairness, Albus never allowed me full access until he was nothing more than a canvas and oil, and McGonagall relented much easier than I anticipated.

"Tempus capiam eum." McGonagall and Aberforth started chanting. The circle glows an angry green. "Tempus gubernet eum." I started translating the spell in my head: 'time take him; time guide him.' "Tempus movere eum. Concitaverunt eum sua nativitate." 'Time move him. Move him to his birth.' "Moventes inde retinebit, et celeritate" 'move him there and keep him there.' "et magicarum sanguis erat."

"What!" I yelled, but it's too late. Just as they command their magic and blood to speed me on my way, they slice their hands open over the circle and both let out a scream. McGonagall simply staggers, righting herself quickly, but I can hear Aberforth's body fall to the ground.

"Sorry my boy." My head, which had been turning to look at Aberforth's body, swivelled back to Albus with a glare. "I knew you wouldn't take the chance if you knew the danger." Albus's portrait started to curve into an odd angle, as if the left side was melting while the right was stretching upwards and downwards. "They chose it; they wanted you to have a full, joyous, and unencumbered life." Now the portrait was twisting, as if it was slowly being flushed down a muggle toilet. "Don't let them down. Live my boy – live! And don't be too hard on my past self. He will know nothing of this or any other crimes against you."

Before I can reply, or even think of reply, there is nothing but darkness.

There was no sensation of fall, no sensation of a tug behind the navel, no sensation of squeezing through a straw, no sensation of moving in any direction. There was simply darkness. Yet, no sooner had I noticed that only darkness existed, then I started to feel cold – deathly cold. It was worse than the ten minutes I stood out by the lake before the start of the second task, when it was the middle of February, and all I had on was some overlarge muggle bathing shorts.

Then the vertigo hit. I would have thrown up if I still had control of my body. Instead, I just floated in petrifying cold, in inky blackness, without being able to move or feel my body, but feeling completely overwrought with nausea. And then the electricity started. When I was seven, my cousin Dudley once convinced me to stick a paperclip into an electrical socket. He then made sure I couldn't withdraw the paperclip. Looking back on it, I'm not sure I'd have survived if I'd been a muggle. And that's, more or less, how I felt right now.

Then I started to spin. Luckily, the nausea disappeared right when the spinning started. The cold too was slowly dissipating. I still couldn't feel my body – no feet, no hands, no throat. But I was spinning, so that must mean that my body, at least, was intact. I think.

Suddenly, it was light, I had stopped spinning, it was no longer freezing cold, and I could feel the claws of gravity digging into me.

With an almighty crash, I collapsed onto something. With a snap, whatever it was on which I landed broke. I heard a deep voice I recognised yell "by Merlin!" And then my head slammed into something fuzzy.

"Eh..." I groaned. Turning my head to the side, I emptied the contents of my stomach onto whatever I was besides. With unfocused eyes, I searched around me for something that would make whatever just happened make sense.

What greeted me was completely unexpected. There was a man of about forty, with a shock of close cropped auburn hair who had a full and equally auburn beard. He was staring down at me, standing before a tipped over chair. I appeared to be in the same kitchen as before, on a recently broken table. The man's face was a mask of equal parts shock, confusion, and fear. He pointed a long, thin wand of what looked like Vinewood at my face, and he was panting somewhat.

"Who the fuck are you?" I gasped. Probably not my most diplomatic of greetings, but I felt like crap. Apparently, travelling through time is not easy on the body.

The man either didn't notice the offense of my question, or found the whole situation so ludicrous, that he answered almost immediately. "Albus Brian Dumbledore," said the forty year old, "at your service."

"Oh you have got to be fucking me!"


	2. New Life

**Author's Notes: **

I would like to first apologise for my British-isms. I'm doing the best that I can do, but I was raised in the U.S. and still think with those idioms in mind. I

On a similar note, if there is anyone who wants to Beta, I'm still looking. If you want to simply be a British-ism Beta, I'll accept that too. Clearly, I want a Beta for all seasons, as it were.

**WARNING**: there are instances in this chapter for which the fic was rated M. Specifically, there is a very graphic description, just a paragraph, of exactly how you create a horcrux. It's less than pleasant.

And you thought it was just the cursing and the references to sex that made this M. Nope – you get blood, rape, and infanticide too!

**Last Time:**

What greeted me was completely unexpected. There was a man of about forty, with a shock of close cropped auburn hair who had a full and equally auburn beard. He was staring down at me, standing before a tipped over chair. I appeared to be in the same kitchen as before, on a recently broken table. The man's face was a mask of equal parts shock, confusion, and fear. He pointed a long, thin wand of what looked like Vinewood at my face, and he was panting somewhat.

"Who the fuck are you?" I gasped. Probably not my most diplomatic of greetings, but I felt like crap. Apparently, travelling through time is not easy on the body.

The man either didn't notice the offense of my question, or found the whole situation so ludicrous, that he answered almost immediately. "Albus Brian Dumbledore," said the forty year old, "at your service."

"Oh you have got to be fucking me!"

**Chapter Two: New Life**

There I was, looking up at the bright blues eyes of Ablus Dumbledore. His nose was already broken, and I distantly remembered that Aberforth broke it at their sister's funeral. His mane was not long, flowing, or even speckled with a dot of white, nor was his beard. His eyes were unencumbered with spectacles. Still, he was still the same Dumbledore. And though his eyes did not yet twinkle, they still shone bright with intelligence and power.

Power – that was the one word more than any other that described the Albus Dumbledore before me. He had not yet learnt to hide his magic, or his age had yet to diminish it. Either way, I could feel his magic as it poured from him. I wondered if he could feel the same from me.

Still staring down at me, Dumbledore says, "You know me." It wasn't a question.

I check my Occlumency shields. Nope – that was pure intuition. He figured it out on brains alone. "Yup. Um... could you please tell me what year it is?"

His left eyebrow retreats impressively far up his face. His gaze flicks to the wall briefly. "1926, but only for another hour."

It was December 31, 1926. At first, I thought that the date held no significance for me. So I sat on the floor for a moment or two trying to figure out what could have possibly hauled me off my intended course.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, I got it. I didn't quite know how I knew, I didn't know what travelling here meant, and I couldn't possibly fathom how it had happened. But I knew what had happened: today, the person who would become the creature known as Voldemort was born. Instead of travelling back to the day of my birth, I travelled back to the day of Tom Riddle's birth.

"Fuck me," I breathe half in wonder, half in gut-retching pain.

Dumbledore snorts. "You already said that."

But I wasn't really paying attention to him. I was back in 1926 and, from everything the old Dumbledore had told me, I couldn't ever return.

That's when I started to hyperventilate. I went back to save my parents. Fight a war – true – but save my parents nonetheless. Instead of getting to know my parents, Sirius, Remus, and Dumbledore all over again, instead of getting to see my second self, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny all grow up and have the life that no one never had a chance to enjoy under Voldemort, instead of living with family and friends and the knowledge that the world was a better place, I was stuck so far back in time that I didn't even know if my grandparents were born yet.

Everyone was gone. And soon I couldn't breathe at all, but I managed to stand up and stalk around in circles, almost as if I was hunting for my past. The spaces hovering at the corner of my vision started going dark. There is a scream, a whirl of wind, a sharp snap, and, the next thing I know, I'm on the ground again with a bruised head and a bloody, broken hand.

Dumbledore's standing above me, clearly worried. "What's wrong?" No boy, no son, no child, no nothing – this isn't the same Dumbledore.

But he is a Dumbledore, and my eyes pop open with that realisation. Almost by instinct, I try to repeat what was so recently told to me: "Qui est la voleur... tuer indétectable, sauf que... quelque chose... son flux... oh bugger me – time steals and kills except those who flee from it or something like that!"

Yeah, maybe not my best job at memorisation. Still, from Dumbledore's face, which looks like I just smacked him with a cold fish, I say it worked fairly well.

"Who told you that?"

"You did."

"In what context?"

"In the context of I wanted to leave my time and your portrait, the headmistress of Hogwarts, and your brother were there to give me my last wish."

My right hand was still broken, so my left hand automatically reached into my right sleeve and withdrew a yew wand from its depth.

I can see Dumbledore raise his wand higher as he asked his next question, "Agatha and I sent you back?"

"Who's Agatha?"

"The headmistress!" Dumbledore is angry and confused, I can tell. That alone is fairly weird. I've never been able to read much emotion from him, and certainly never confusion.

"Oh... um... no, McGonagall." With a vicious twist, I jabbed my broken hand with my wand. It glows bright red for a moment, then alarmingly green. "Morgana's splintered dildo," I mutter.

Dumbledore shakes his head, seemingly oblivious to my profanity. "I don't know a McGonagall, and she's certainly not on staff."

Now it's my turn to shake my head. With a twirl, a drawn back line, and a crisp tap, my hand glows blue as I say, "No... no... "Minerva McGonagall. She's like two or five right now or something. She becomes headmistress after you're headmaster."

That seems to stop him short. "I become headmaster?"

"Is that really much of a surprise?"

"Well, I did just join the staff about five years ago."

"By Merlin's soggy sack I'm back far." It hadn't quite hit me until then. I was back over seventy years. World War I had barely just finished. The Great Depression hadn't even started. Tom Riddle was a newborn.

Tom Riddle hadn't even begun his campaign of terror yet. He hadn't even entered Hogwarts yet. The whole bloody mess could be stopped. I wouldn't get to see my parents for about forty years, but I could stop their suffering decades in advance.

This time I only fell to my arse, which is a nice change. It didn't hurt as much either. Of course, I regret thinking that almost immediately. Just after I fall, a wet pop and then a sharp crack are heard throughout the kitchen.

"Fucking fuck that hurt!" But my hand is fixed. I deposit my wand back in my right sleeve, and Dumbledore finally lowers his.

"You alright?" Dumbledore's voice brings me back.

"Huh? What?"

"It doesn't matter. I asked you when McGonagall became headmistress."

"May 1997."

Now Dumbledore joins me on the floor. "By Merlin's milk-able tits!"

There is something special about hearing the venerable Dumbledore – the saviour of Britain before I was the saviour of Britain, the defeater of Grindelwald, the master of the deathstick, the greatest headmaster that Hogwarts has ever seen, the most powerful sorcerer since they started keeping track of these things – curse. It's like an individually packaged bit of vertigo. I was once again gasping for air on the floor, this time from hopeless laughter.

"What?" he asks somewhat defensively, "You're the only one who's allowed to curse?"

It takes too long to get myself under control, and Dumbledore is looking somewhat peeved again by the end of it, but eventually I control myself and I say, "It's just, if you knew you from my perspective. I mean. Look, you were one hundred when I was born, and you were hailed as practically the greatest wizard since Merlin. It's just... well, I'd never heard you curse. I couldn't have imagined you cursing had I tried."

He looks both intrigued and rather sheepish, as if I overheard a big secret or caught him in a well hidden lie. I wondered if the secret was the cursing or his desire to be the greatest wizard since Merlin. It doesn't matter. What strikes again is easy he is to read. No wonder Snape and Dumbledore never needed legilimency against me.

"Maybe we should start from the beginning?" I ask.

He nods, and we both pick ourselves off the floor. With a wave of my once again withdrawn wand, I fix the table and set everything back to rights. We then sit across from each other.

"So," he begins, "you were born in 1981?"

For a moment I can't breath – again. These concurrent shocks really need to stop. My heart is admittedly strong, but I don't know how much more of this I can take. I sit there for a moment, thinking, 'how in the world does he know that?' Seriously, he didn't read my mind, so how does a forty year old Dumbledore know everything just like this hundred something year old counterpart?

Luckily, before I can open my mouth and sound like an idiot, the answer occurs to me. He simply extrapolated from the fact that I said he was one hundred when I was born.

"Yeah, July 31st."

"That's my birthday too, you know."

Pause. "No, actually. I didn't know that."

There's another silence, much longer this time. I don't really want to talk about why I'm here. I can't imagine what he's thinking. Maybe he's worried about discussing the future. I remember something Aberforth once told me: 'our childhood had been secrets and lies, and Albus, he was damn good at it.' Dumbledore might actually understand my reluctance to part with knowledge of the future. Or he might simply be scared of what I'll tell him.

"But you clearly knew me well, if I was to tell you as much as it appears I did."

He's referring to my knowledge of his exploration in immortality. "Yeah. You were like a grandfather to me."

"Really – at over a hundred?

"You were almost one hundred seventeen when you died." I chance a look at him, and am yet again stunned. He's smiling, a goofy little – actually rather large – grin sits on his face. I guess it's nice being told that you have more than seventy years left to live. I can't help but rupture his bliss, "but be weary of that. If you risk too much, the other reality won't save you from getting dead here."

That doesn't really snap him out of it. I wonder briefly when the last war was before the war with Grindelwald. Perhaps he has no expectation of anything but disease and old age finishing him off.

When he finally turns back to look at me, his eyes are sharp again. This expression, at least, I know well. He's searching for more information. "Your diction is curious."

It quite a bit of bollocks that he can still manage to throw me off, even when the age gap has shrunk so much. I expected more awe. Also, I barely know what the word 'diction' means. I want to make a crack about him leaving my 'diction' out of this, but I don't know if 'dick' is yet a pejorative for penis.

So, instead, I just mutter what seems to be obvious to me, "Well... I have gone back seventy-something years..."

His eyes glow greater in their intensity, and I see the ghost of their future twinkle. "Yes, you have, have you not? Why?"

"Well, I didn't mean to come back here. I meant to come back to my birth."

"That doesn't answer the thrust of my question."

Fuck, I wish he hadn't noticed that. "No... guess not. Well, to sum it up, the world had gone to shit."

"Could you be more specific?" Somehow, the civility with which he asks this makes it biting.

I really don't want to talk about this. So, I release a grave, put upon sigh and lean back in my chair. Dumbledore winces.

There is another long silence before I answer. "Tonight," I look at the clock, "yeah – still tonight. Tonight, there is a child born in a muggle orphanage. His name is Thomas Marvolo Riddle—"

"A Gaunt? In a muggle...?" Dumbledore breathes.

"Marvolo Gaunt's grandson by Merope and a muggle, named Tom Riddle." Dumbledore, though clearly startled, still nods. I continue, "You meet with him in just over eleven years to deliver what dear little Tommy," Dumbledore winces again, "has already discovered for himself. He is a wizard, an extraordinarily powerful one too – as in your level of power."

No one ever pegged Dumbledore as dumb. He pipes in, "the next Dark Lord."

I'm about to answer yes, but then I remember Grindelwald. "Not quite. We have to have a talk about your old friend Gellert." Dumbledore winces yet again. And I do feel sort of bad; I've been picking at all of his scabs.

"So Tom joins Gellert in the quest that I abandoned?"

Wow... I was not expecting that conclusion. Thinking about it, though, it's not only perfectly logical, but the most likely outcome based on the smattering of information I've given him. Still, well, "not at all. Can you just let me finish?" I don't say it angrily – at least, I don't mean to. Still, his mouth snaps shut. And I'm struck, yet-a-fucking-gain, by how weird it is talking to this younger Dumbledore.

"No, Tom doesn't join Grindelwald. By the time Tom graduates Hogwarts, Grindelwald's neutralised. Tom, however, has learnt quite a lot from Grindelwald and his muggle puppet. Tom creates a pseudonym for himself and a nom-de-guerre for his followers. Voldemort and Death Eaters, they're called.

"In the 1960s, they start their rise behind the scenes. No one, not even you, really notices what's going on. It simply seems to be a backlash against all that's happened since the war with Grindelwald."

"War!" Dumbledore gasps. "Oh Gellert, what will you do?"

"Sadly, I'm actually not very sure myself. I meant to... well... I'll get to all of that. Anyways, so there is a backlash among the purebloods. Their money, more than the money of anyone else, is being used to finance everything the Ministry is doing, and they don't like how pro-muggleborn the ministry is being. So, there's unrest in the 1960s. This unrest evolves into outright ... well... rebellion is too strong of a word yet. Don't matter – by the early 1970s, there are fights and groups that go around torturing muggles."

Dumbledore's face is fairly green by this point, and I realise that he's probably thinking about his father, who was imprisoned for something similar. I did say that I was picking at all his scars, didn't I? "It gets worse. Sometime in fall of 1974, I don't remember when, a group of aurors tries to break up one of this muggle torturing sessions. They succeed."

"Wait," Dumbledore interrupted again. "What are aurors?"

That question throws me completely. "The ministry doesn't have aurors?"

"They might. What are they?

"Wow – em... okay, they're a little like hit-wizards, but they're better trained. They get their orders direct from the ministry, and actually make up a huge portion of the government at my time. I... well... I guess I never knew when the aurors were put into place. Maybe for the war against Grindelwald?"

Dumbledore quite clearly can't answer the question. He doesn't even try. We sit in silence again for a little while.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. "So, the aurors succeed in stopping one of these gatherings?"

"Ah yeah," and only then does it occur to me that I've already told Dumbledore so much more than I planned, than I even now think is smart. Oh well – in for a knut, in for a galleon. "So... the aurors show up on several more and they all dissipate. The aurors are being so successful that the meetings are tapering off, public confidence is rising. Now, there's one every month, instead of several a week. But, that's, unfortunately, not where the story ends.

"See, in March of 1975, when the aurors try to break up yet another of those meetings, they meet resistance. There is a wizard there who stops everything the aurors throw at him. There are six aurors and he stops them all. He doesn't attack at first, just demands that they leave him alone. Well, they don't, and so he throws a killing curse, just one, and the five remaining aurors run scared. And that's the beginning of Voldemort's first rise."

"How'd it end?"

I chuckle darkly, and Dumbledore winces again. "That'd be my fault, sort of. So, Voldemort and the Ministry fight a war, an all out civil war, for six long and gruelling years. The two forces are actually mostly even for most of the war. In early 1979, though, Voldemort is able to take out half of the auror force in a surprise attack. It's estimated that he loses a fourth of his force at most. Suddenly, it appears as if the Ministry will fall at any moment. You, with your buddy Bartemius Crouch Sr., pretty much pick the pieces of the Ministry up off the ground and reassemble them yourselves. You start using your own group, the Order of the Phoenix, as a sort of paramilitary wing of the Ministry.

"It saves the Ministry, at least for a couple more years, but Voldemort is ruthless. By 1980, the unforgivables are authorised. That actually makes the biggest dent in Voldemort's force yet. It still doesn't seem to matter. Voldemort recruits two people for every one person that you kill or capture. It's splitting families apart, and abolishing whole lines. And spies are everywhere. Each side has a handful it can trust and dozens of others it can't. Talk is starting to rise of capitulation, which only a few seem to realise will mean death or slavery for everyone.

"Soon, though, you hear hope, whispered by the voice of a middle aged, washed up fraud of a divinations 'expert,' who just so happens to be an actual seer. She predicts the birth of a baby boy – yours truly – who will defeat the dark lord. The hope is tinged with dread, however, as you can't figure out how to keep Voldemort at bay for the twenty years it will take for me to be ready.

"Long story short, is that, though my parents try to hide me away, they're betrayed, and Voldemort finds us – hiding in this very home, in point of fact. But, when Voldemort turns his wand on the boy – on me – his spell backfires and burns out his body, thus giving us about thirteen years of peace."

Dumbledore's attention is riveted by my story, and when I end on that mostly anticlimactic note, he gasps a little. Then he shakes his head, as if to clear mist from his eyes. "Wait, thirteen years of peace. That didn't kill him?"

I decide to tackle that problem sideways, "do you know what a horcrux is?"

"He didn't!" Dumbledore looks a little woozy at the thought.

"Seven, actually." Now Dumbledore looks disgustingly ill, which tells me not only that he knows what a horcrux is, but that he knows how they are made. With the full extent of his knowledge exposed, I marvel at his ability to keep the contents of his stomach. When I first learnt, I lost it and couldn't eat real food for days.

See, murder alone won't do for a horcrux. Murder of an innocent person, even, is not enough to create a horcrux. No, the caster needs to engage in an act so disgusting, so perverse, so very 'anti-nature' that he shatters the very core of his humanity. Sorry to say, but murder isn't actually that against human nature. Indeed, we humans are surprisingly good at, and very well equipped for, murder. No, a horcrux demands something far more heinous.

You take a pregnant woman, the closer to birth the better, and you tie her down over a tetrahedral alter made of onyx and sulfar, below which you've placed the vessel for your eventual horcrux. Then, you soak the tetrahedral and the woman in a collection of blood mixed from your blood, the blood of a slayed servant, and the blood of a slayed unicorn. After thoroughly soaking your victim, you rape her, cut open her womb, and cauterise the wound to make sure she doesn't bleed out. As if that wasn't enough, you must then sodomise her until she suffocates, and, finally, murder the infant by slicing it nose to toes and letting it bleed out. Oh, and, for best results, you should feed her a potion that keeps her brain fully alert for the whole procedure.

Voldemort was not a nice man.

"How... how could anyone..." Dumbledore doesn't need to finish the question. That's good, because it doesn't look like he could.

"Yeah... so... he survived." I agreed with a glum nod.

And we pass through another pause, a rather rank silence.

Like before, Dumbledore's voice brings us back. "Did you end up killing him?"

"Yeah, about a month before I travelled back here. We found the horcruxes, or however you pluralise that, and I killed him. But..." it was still hard to talk about. "But... well... I lost everyone. You were already dead, murdered just over a year before. My parents died the night he disappeared. My godfather died in my fifth year. My best friends died during the year and change after you died that it took to round up his horcruxes."

I shrug, which gives me the opportunity to notice another difference. Whereas my shrug of self-defeat and agony explained my point perfectly to McGonagall and future Dumbledore, it seems to have little effect on this Dumbledore. Even though he is in his forties, and he is horrified by Voldemort's various transgressions, and even though he seems very sympathetic to my losses, there is a certain flavour of sympathy lacking in his understanding. Empathy really is the child of endured suffering.

His clock rang out over the still kitchen, and I can hear church bells in the distances doing the same.

It was the first of January, the year of the muggle lord, nineteen hundred and twenty-seven.

The next morning, I opened my eyes to warm bliss. I gave out a wide yawn, grabbing the far stretched sheets of the large blanket-drowned bed in Dumbledore's guestroom. I had been delighted when Dumbledore gave me this room, though I tried to hide that fact. A small corner of my soul had delighted in sleeping here, in coming home, as it were. The room in which a Voldemort of future's past would come to lose his body. And so I lay still and warm and calm, imagining it as my bed. I imagined that my parents were just downstairs, as had been the plan originally.

I should have known better. There was not a single one of my plans that I hadn't managed to bugger up royally. And now everyone – parents, friends, companions, even barely known acquaintances – were gone forever. Hell, the grandparents of some of my friends weren't even born yet. I didn't even remember if my grandparents were yet born.

Yet, through all this horrible swirling, I hear the words of portrait Dumbledore: start a life; you can't come back.

I am ashamed to admit that, whenever I really thought about this, I had to force myself to take long, deep breaths so I didn't succumb to a panic-attack.

Luckily, before I can fall too deep into depression, the Dumbledore who is now very much alive gives an energetic knock at my door. "Open up and come on out Harry. You were to tell me your surname today, and I am itching to discover it."

With one last deep breath, I am able to put on a real, if wan, smile. Dumbledore is always good for a laugh, always very good at cheering me up.

It takes only five minutes for me to be dressed and downstairs sitting across from Dumbledore. He set out some oatmeal for me already, warm and with honey. His oatmeal, he had already finished, and he was halfway through eating some eggs and bacon, which he had cooked in copious amounts.

My stomach hadn't acknowledged my hunger until I sat before this movable feast. But, having sat down, I want nothing more than consume everything. So, I start by shovelling oatmeal into my mouth.

Between mouthfuls, I say "So, you want to know my surname?"

"No, no, no!" Dumbledore replies with a happy shake of his head, seemingly unconcerned with my bad table manners and untroubled by the acknowledgements of impending war and doom from last night. "I want to _guess_ your surname!"

"It's amazing to me that you weren't sorted into Ravenclaw."

He gives a jolly laugh. "So my friends find no end of delight in telling me. Now, first question: are you my grand nephew or some-such?"

I choke. Spluttering and coughing, I say, "No, no, no – how did you reach that conclusion?"

"You said you were born in this house. This house, well, more accurately, this plot of land, has been in my family for generations, almost three hundred years. I doubt that we would ever sell it, especially if I am successful enough to become Headmaster, and so thought that you might be Abe's grandson."

"No, you leant the house to my parents when they went into hiding. As far as I know, we are not related at all."

"Too bad, you sound like a fine young man." I blush at that, and hate both of us for it. "So, next question: into which house were you sorted?"

"Gryffindor, though the hat wanted me for Slytherin."

Pause.

"Are you a Black?"

Slightly more prepared for his guesses, I still choke on my drink. "Not by birth. My godfather was a black, and, when he died, I inherited his fortune and the title. But no, not a black."

As I answer, I also think of how strange it is for that to be his second guess. He knows that my family was arrayed against Voldemort before Voldemort attempted my murder. He also knows that Voldemort was all about blood purity. It does not make sense, then, for me to be a Black. The Blacks were always the most fanatical of the blood purist families. Seriously – their motto is 'always pure.'

Dumbledore seems put out. "Drat. Okay, let's see. Born here, black hair, green eyes, and willing to fight against a Dark Lord openly..." there is a pause in which Dumbledore squintes at me and I start to squirm a little. "Are you a Lockhart?"

After several long seconds of my ruckus laughter, Dumbledore moves on. "What was your father's name?"

That question halts my laughter. "Em... James. But he won't be born for almost forty years. How is that going to help you?"

"Sometimes names run in families. And, even when they don't, a family will often all have the same taste in names. James... James... are you a Goshawk?"

"Nope, and never heard of them."

"Oh drat, I'm on my fifth guess now. And they're a lovely group of spellcasters and intellectuals. The youngest, a Miranda Goshawk, is just now five, and I thought she could be your grandmother. You two seem to share similarly misbehaving hair," which had to be the nicest way anyone has ever put the perpetual chaos that is the state of my untameable mane.

"If it helps, I'm only a halfblood. My mother was a muggleborn, and it's from her that I received my eyes."

Dumbledore looks a little lost for a moment, and then seems to have a thought. "Is your grandfather named Charlus by any chance? Great-grandparents Harold and Matilda?"

That seemed right, and so I lean forward a little more in anticipation. "I don't know the names of my grandparents, but Charlus is right. That was my grandfather's name."

"Ha!" Dumbledore is triumphant. "You're a Potter!"

With a smile, I extend my hand, "Harry James Potter, at your service."

With another whooping laugh, Dumbledore meets my hand too, "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, at your service."

I smile and we both lean back, "That reminds me. I've always wanted to ask you. Who in their right mind gives their child three middle names?"

"A father who wished to honour his brothers and burden his child."

We smile at each other as I move on to the belly bacon. This time, the long silence is peaceful and relaxed.

"You know, Charlus is just ten. His parents and he live across town. He seems a decent and sensible child. How will he be when grown?"

I swallow the last bit of the meat, and move onto the eggs. "You know Professor, this is magnificent." Dumbledore nods, yet I couldn't quite finish my thought, can't quite tell him that Charlus died before I was even born. The longer the pause holds, the further Dumbledore's face falls.

"When?" was his eventual question.

"He and his wife were murdered by Voldemort in early 1979."

Dumbledore looks deeply pained and even somewhat aged. I guess hearing about the death of strangers, or even your own death, is not as sobering as hearing about the murder of a vibrant young man just down the street.

There is another long pause. Once I finish my meal, I sit back and look at my once and future mentor.

Thankfully, he once again breaks the silence. "What are you plans?"

"Well... I don't know. You told me to live, to take life by the horns, as it were."

"Ah yes, did I pull my father's favourite phrase on you?"

"I'm not sure that you..."

"Regret is much worse than remorse."

Maybe language atrophied through the expanse of wars, but I am pretty sure those two words were different without being distinct. When I tell this to Dumbledore, he looks like I'd kicked his puppy.

"Remorse is feeling sadness for things done poorly or wrongly. Regret is sadness for things not done."

"Ah." There is another slight pause. I don't know how to talk to this Dumbledore. I can't tell what he expected of me. Finally, I just babble. "Well... I want to live life, but I don't even know what that looks like. I spent all of my life just surviving. I don't know anything else."

"Well... I think we should start at the beginning. That is, you cannot do anything without O.W.L.s, and if you want to do anything interesting, then you need to take your N.E.W.T.s. I assume you'd do well on your NEWTs if you took them right now?"

"Em... no." My face feels like it is ablaze.

"No? You killed a dark lord and you wouldn't do well on your NEWTs?" Thus why my face feels like it's ablaze. Thank you Dumbledore.

"Just because I'm a good killer doesn't mean I'm a good scholar."

This is a distinction very few people understand actually. And clearly I'm not so happy about it. See, I can cast any combat spell you give me, and I probably ten more that you couldn't find in that dusty old tome you have there. My understanding of potions has improved too, mostly through my hours brewing combat potions and even more hours brewing healing potions. Studying how to prolong Hermione's life, alone, was worth at least a year with Professor Snape. Also, because they were so instrumental in my understanding of wards, I managed to learn quite a bit about ancient runes and arithmancy.

Ask me to complete a transfiguration of a complexity above fifth year, on the other hand, and I'll have difficulty, though I'll get through it. My skills in herbology are worse, and my knowledge there stems entirely from my ability with potions. And my ability to handle astronomy, care of magical creatures, and history of magic does not even bear thinking upon.

Dumbledore seems to consider this. "Well, could you perform on your OWLs with satisfaction?"

"With charms, D.A.D.A., transfiguration, and potions, I'd be fine. With ancient runes, arithmancy, and herbology I'd just have to know the topics and maybe brush up a little. I'd actually have to study for the others."

Dumbledore seemed to consider this for a while. After a moment, he was staring at me intensely. "You do not look that old." Then a pause – though it's obvious in retrospect, I had no idea what he was thinking.

Uncharacteristically, I stayed silent. I think that, even then, I understood that his solution would change my life, be exactly what I needed for a successful life in this new old world.

After what I felt was far too long, Dumbledore smacks the table. "That's it!" he yells with triumph. "Here's what we do. You need your NEWTs for anything important, and, to get your NEWTs, you need your OWLs or a letter of recommendation from a recognised authority. Of course, we don't have either. No matter, we simply make you sixteen, put you in your fifth year, and have you take your OWLs this summer with the rest of the fifth years." Then he smacks his hands together again, this time as if he had just finished with a particularly difficult plumbing job.

"What!" I think that about sums up my thoughts on the matter.

Dumbledore ignores me entirely. "Of course, you will need a new name as well."

"Wait... what?"

Suddenly, it was as if I was talking with the Dumbledore, from my own time, whom I knew and sometimes couldn't stand. There's always that same feeling of vertigo as he twists the world and everyone in it to suit his plans and desires. Yet, like far too often, the more I think of Professor Dumbledore's plans, the more that I find them not only workable, but eminently practical.

I can't continue being a Potter, so long as I intend to keep my time travel secret. I can already see how that particular conversation would go: 'oh hello Harold Potter, my name is Harry Potter; ah yes, you don't remember me, well, you see your little tyke there, Charlus Potter; well, he will grow up to marry a girl – now only six you understand – by the name of Dorea Black; they will end up giving birth to a son fairly late in life; this son will, you see...' and on I could not actually go. No, that won't fly. Preferably, had Potter been the name of those rather socially inferior, like Cattermole or something, I could have just flown under the bludgers. But even now, Potter is far too well known a name. Dumbledore is right, I would need a different one.

And, if I took a new one without connection to a powerful family, all I'd be is an unknown person with an unknown name trying to make my way with untested abilities. My skill would eventually get me where I wanted, but only to a point. I could become a famous carpenter, or tailor, or even enchanter. But it would be long, and unnecessarily arduous. Getting my NEWTs would grant me immediate recognition from the world, and speed up anything I'd want to do.

Plus, the portrait may have told me to go out, grow up, and do what I wanted in life, but I hadn't the faintest clue as to what that actually was. I could play Quidditch here, which would be fun. But I might like to work as a warder or a curse-breaker; I enjoyed my time, even under threat of war, building up and breaking down wards. I could be an auror – I guess technically hit-wizard – as I originally planned. Taking the extra time might help me decide what I wanted to do. And, especially if I re-took half of fifth year and all of sixth year again to really study, I could do practically anything. I trusted enough in my abilities for that.

My last year at school, my sixth year, was under the shroud of war and I spent half of my time training and the other half watching Malfoy. Fifth year was under threat from Um-bitch. And Fourth year was under threat from the Tournament. I really hadn't had a normal year since Third – if you can call being threatened by dementors and escaped convicts, who turn out to be innocent, normal.

Looking back up at Dumbledore, I take some time to appreciate the fact that he gave me time in peace to contemplate his rather dictatorial pronouncement. "Okay. I'll do it. Who should I be?"

"I was thinking that we should change your surname to Dumbledore."

My eyes pop open wide, and I breathe out "brilliant."

And it truly is. See, like all small societies, the British wizarding world works on word of mouth more than anything else. You are who knows you. And, like all societies, small or large, if you are related to someone another person knows well, then they instantly feel closer to you, more accommodating of you. In one move, Dumbledore has given me an unimpeachable background, respectable if inconspicuous genealogy, and assurances that he will recommend my existence to anyone who asks.

"Brilliant Professor Dumbledore – thanks. What should my first name be?" Already I can tell that 'Harry Dumbledore' just won't do. I cringe at the mere thought of it.

"Well, before anything else, I think we should get away from this 'Professor Dumbledore' crap. If I am to be your elder cousin, then you should call me 'Albus.' If you are the son of my recently deceased but always loved cousin in Canada, let us say, then you would not call such close kin by his title or your mutual last name would you?"

"Of course not Albus," I said with a smirk.

The rat bastard keeps getting what he wants, and I thank the stars that he is so good. If he were evil like Tom, I can't imagine the horror he'd cause. My new back-story is impeccable too. If his dear cousin, my dear mother, had recently passed, then neither of us would want to discuss it. And, by the time we would be comfortable discussing her passing, it would be so far into the future, and I so much a fixture, that my past couldn't matter less. Brilliant – and I could once again see how overwhelmed I would have been in our war had Dumbledore not already choreographed many of its most important steps.

"Wonderful! Now, we shall find you a given name yet. I think you should choose a name that means something to you. A personage from our future, perhaps, who did a great deal, whose name you would not mind wearing for the rest of your life. Perhaps whose death you especially wished to recognise?"

I immediately thought of Sirius. After all, he was my guiding light for so long. But no, not only does 'Sirius Dumbledore' sound almost as bad as 'Harry Dumbledore,' but Sirius's name is too commonly used among the Blacks. Even before I met some of them in this time, I knew that his name was intimate. My second thought, then, was James. It was my middle name already, so an easy transition, and the name wasn't commonly used in the wizarding world as far as I knew. I also thought it would be nice to remember my father. And so I almost chose James.

Except, Dumbledore's suggestion struck me forcibly. I should recognise a friend from the war. Hermione and Ginny don't make good choices. Besides the obvious fact that I'm not a woman, I don't know what the masculine versions of their names would be. Perhaps Ginevro? That is as horrid as, worse in fact than, 'Sirius Dumbledore.' Ronald is a good name to take, except, for as much as I cared for Ron, I couldn't ever really stand his name.

I was just about to swoosh through all the Weasleys, to see with whose name the surname 'Dumbledore' would most comfortably fit when my brain hiccupped on a name from the very beginning of the second war. The man was honest, brave, composed, skilful, and completely innocent. His death was a senseless travesty – wrong time, wrong place.

"Cedric," I determined with a downward thrust of my chin. "I want my new name to be Cedric."

Dumbledore's smile was slightly sad. "Forgive me if I seem indelicate, but may I suggest Cederic as an alternative?" My face must have been fierce, for Albus immediately started to surrender ground. I could actually feel the heat roll down my neck. "I suggest Cederic instead of Cedric only because Dumbledores are known for, let us not be coy, rather ostentatious names, and Cederic sounds more pompous and aggravating than Cedric. Plus, and again forgive me for being indelicate, but putting some distance between yourself and the real Cedric might make his remembrance sweeter."

When phrased like that, there was no real way to stay mad. With a smile, I acquiesce. "Fine, you mad puppetmaster, I shall submit!" I sort of hate us both again for the compromise. I console myself with one last thought: "I'm probably going to go by Ced anyways."

After saying that, I gave him a fairly withering fake glare. He smiled back in the way he always did, unfazed by anger. Unlike his perfect calm of seventy years hence, with forty year old Albus, I was able to detect a slight quiver around his eyes that I took as nerves. Nerves or not, we stared at each other for maybe half a minute before neither of us could hold it.

We both broke up laughing. It was good to laugh.

I stick out my hand once again, "hey cousin. I'm Cederic James Dumbledore. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"And you too cousin."

"Now," I say, "Unless you have any more ridiculous, traumatising, and one sided pronouncements to make, I think I'm going to go take a kip." And I stand to leave.

"Actually..." comes the hesitant reply laden with amusement.

"Seriously?" My voice may have cracked as I said this. I shan't testify one way or the other.

"Em... yeah. I have a New Years Day dinner party to attend in about three hours, and you are welcome to join me. It should extend to tea time or perhaps even as late as supper."

"Doesn't sound too bad so far." And the flickers of his eyes are the only confirmation that I need. "So what aren't you telling me?"

"The hosts are Harold and Matilda Potter."

Pause.

"You're a ruinous little fuck, you know that right?"

"Yes actually."

Several hours later, I'm dressed for the party and simply waiting on Dumbledore – Albus, I remind myself – to tell me that he is ready. Meanwhile, I'm perched over my trunk that I shrunk and carried with me through time. I had already expanded it back to size last night, but now I needed to start unpacking.

I first open the top layer of the trunk, in which I packed the delicate instruments and several items I needed immediately. Taking out a small chess piece, a Knight, I bring up eleven inches of holly and phoenix feather. With a tap, a large orange ball of fluff appears. The feline is in status, but another tap, perhaps a little premature, and I have a hissing, furious Crookshanks trying to claw my eyes out.

"Get off me you devil cat!" And I throw the feline across the room, where he lands safely with a heavy plop.

I actually like Crookshanks. He's quite possibly the best guard creature I have ever seen. Seriously, give me Crookshanks over Fluffy any day. Towards the end of the war, I led the team that assaulted Malfoy Manor. A small group of us camped just outside the wards for the night; we were mapping the wards so our curse-breakers could snap them without undue fuss or surprises the next morning.

Hermione came along, because, although I could snap wards faster than anyone but Bill or Flitwick, not even Bill could map wards as fast as Hermione. Crookshanks did not like the idea that his mistress chose to endanger herself without him, so he stowed away in her bottomless beaded bag.

After we finished mapping the wards, we decided to get some quick shut-eye before the assault in the morning. Wood and Flitwick, who's role was simply to crush the wards and then apparate away the next day, stayed up while Hermione, Fred, George, and I, who would partake in the assault, caught some shut-eye.

Long story short, about an hour and a half after Hermione and I fall asleep, Crookshanks was hissing and spitting into our faces trying to awaken us. Not a minute after we woke up, the camp was attacked by ten death eaters. Even though we lost George and Wood to the attack, we took every single one of the dark fuckers with us. Without Crookshanks, we'd all have been dead – no question.

So I like the cat, or whatever-the-fuck kind of creature it is. And I wasn't about to leave him in my original time. But I kinda knew that he would not like to travel or, more accurately, the transfiguration. Long story short, I have one pissed off kitty in the corner of my room still spitting at me.

I start to unpack the rest of my trunk.

The next thing I find is actually the object I wanted the most. It's a thin sheet of fabric that you can insert inside the right sleeve of a robe to create a secondary wand-sheath. It's dead useful if you're not, like I am not now, wearing one of your own robes.

All robes are made with a sheath up the left sleeve so you can keep a wand there. It takes some dexterity to draw, but, once you've learnt, it's far faster, and far safer – you won't fry off a buttock, as Moody liked to say – than storing the wand in your pockets. All of my robes have three sheaths. I have one in the left sleeve like normal for my holly and phoenix wand, my everyday wand. I have one in the right sleeve for my first wand's twin. And I have one in the leg-slip of my robes for Professor Dumbledore's once and perhaps future wand.

There are some days, again, like today, when I am not allowed to wear custom made clothing. To explain, let me say, right at the beginning, that I am very fond of my outfits. Nothing against muggle fashion, but their clothes are bollocks. Jeans are always too tight in the wrong places, slacks always too loose. Shirts can be constricting, or weigh you down, and you can never tell just by looking at them. Jumpers are pleasant, and quite possibly my favourite part of the muggle ensemble, but they're sort of useless – and far too revealing – on their own.

Magical fashion, on the other hand, is wonderfully freeing. Robes are loose but controlled. The male fashion especially has developed slight slits that runs along each leg, front and back. These are the leg-slits along which my elder and threshal wand usually sits. These leg-slits are great not only for hiding weaponry, but for running and jumping, which was always difficult, if not outright impossible, when wearing older fashioned robes.

Robes can be insulating in winter or, with only small variations, can breathe for summer. They can be little more than bath robes for lying around the house, or they can be full and ostentatious for ministry functions.

In sum, I enjoy my collection of robes. Albus, the present one, doesn't care for my wardrobe so much. To him, they are not formal enough. Even my fanciest robe apparently looks like a day robe.

That is why I need these extra sheathes. For, instead of allowing me to wear my formal robes made of sleek acromatula silk with emerald lining along the leg-slits, he handed me a bubblegum coloured catastrophe. It had silver trim, no leg-slits whatever, and magenta frills. Yes, it had frills. If only Ron could see me now, he'd be laughing till he was blue, then taking the Mickey out of me till I cursed him. Still, every time I see my reflection, I can't help but smile a little; it's perfect payback for the Yule Ball.

It takes little trouble for me to add the sheath to my right arm, and pretty soon I can once again double phoenix feather someone if the situation calls for it. My threshal wand takes a little more planning. The attachable sheaths are a dull brown, meant for the inside of a robe, not the outside. With the old robes, there's no real place to put it. Even the frills and kept tight to the chest, without room for additions underneath them. Yet, I can't very well leave the threshal wand at home.

I'm still debating exactly what to do with it five minutes later when Albus finally stands outside my room.

"You ready Cederic?" he says with a smile.

"Are you sure this is the latest fashion?" I ask for the tenth time, as I look down at the multicoloured travesty.

I know what answer he'll give me. Currently, he's in sky blue robes decorated with cherry-red wands and snitches. He also has frills, lace as he insists I call it. His frills are lime green. To top it off, he wears a pink fedora and a gold cravat. The entire outfit is hideous, but he seems happy and comfortable.

Unfortunately, that provides little comfort. Though at no time in my memory were his robes as headmaster quite this garish, his robes were never what one would consider normal.

"You look quite dashing cousin." Yeah – didn't help. I'll just have to hope that the other party-goers are just as sensational.

With one last desperate look at my Threshal wand, I resolve on the only conclusion that has so far presented itself. Taking the thirteen and one half inch yew wand from the holster, I tuck the Deathstick in its place.

"What is the core of that wand?" asks Albus. He wants to hide his interest, but the hitch in his voice and his suspicious eyes give him away.

"Dragon heartstring," I answer quickly. Perhaps too quickly.

Albus seems to buy it. With a nod and a sigh that he smothers, he returns to being chipper once more.

"Right then. Shall we meet your great-grandparents?"

"You really are having too much fun with this."

He chooses not to answer. And so there is a long, calm pause as we head towards my ancestors. About halfway there, Albus restarts a thread of our conversation from earlier –his recent studies into dragon's blood.

It's actually one of the scariest things about Albus. I have more natural talent when it comes to duelling, but he is a master not only of transfiguration, but also potions, mind magic, arithmancy, and ancient runes, which is simply an umbrella term for all foreign, ancient, and magical languages. The only person whose breadth and depth of knowledge came close was Tom Riddle, who had a neigh savant understanding of magical creatures, dark magic, mind magic, and arithmancy.

Me, I'm sitting at a savant like understanding of charms only, with a good grasp of ancient runes, arithmancy, and potions. I'm also not bad at legilimency and, due entirely to my special brand of insanity, occlumency. This combination of skills is what makes me so adept at combating the dark arts. But, while I can cast transfiguration spells in everyday life – I just overpower them – I'm shit when it comes to using them in duelling or performing any sort of detail work. And just don't bother talking to me about any of the other subjects.

Yet, I do have some future knowledge, and so I ask if Albus has studied what happens when dragon's blood is combined with bat wings and un-distilled whiskey. He hasn't considered it, but I can tell the idea pulls at him. I can also tell that I've just saved him six years of research and one painfully drunken night with a French prostitute.

Aberforth told me that one. And though I am somewhat miffed that I've just prevented Albus from sleeping with the only woman he ever bedded during his former – future – life, I think the greater magical community will still thank me quicker invention of a truly potent penis potion.

Right as Albus finishes telling me his third hypothesis for that particular combination – he's still wrong – and as I'm trying to say "potent penis potion" ten times fast under my breath for the fifth time – still can't do it – we get to the Potters' door.

Moments later, a portly woman with curly blond hair answers. Her face is pleasant, but soft, as if her features are out of focus. Her eyes are a deep brown, and her smile upon seeing Albus is warm and, given her general homeliness, surprisingly enchanting.

Albus opens his mouth, but the woman beats him to it. "Albus! You look dashing as normal."

That's when I notice her robe. It's a soft blue, without many frills and with a muted pink trim that compliments the blue of her robe and the gold of her hair. It's nothing like the gaudy models we're sporting.

My glare does not go unnoticed by either the woman or Albus. The woman looks shocked, as if she just noticed me, and Albus is all smiles – the bastard.

"Oh, hello dear. Are you one of Albus's new beaus?"

"What?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Albus laughs easily, though I can tell he's a little uncomfortable. "No, no. Matilda Potter, may I introduce you to my late cousin's son, Cederic Dumbledore. Cederic, may I introduce you to Matilda Potter."

But I'm still stuck about ten seconds in the past where my great-grandmother just asked if my headmaster was ploughing me in the ass. I can't quite get over the disgust. Not because of the gayness. I did just mention that I knew about that, remember. In fact, even before coming to the wizarding world, I was predisposed to like gays; if Uncle Vernon hated them so much, then they must be doing something right. And wizarding culture has no problems with homosexuality, at least to a point. In fact, there is a ritual invented by Helga Hufflepuff that allows two women to reproduce. I prepared it for Emmeline Vance once.

No, it's disgusting because, well, I don't think anyone likes to get asked if he wants to be bent over by the man who is, for all intents and purposes, his grandfather.

In a day full of shocks, though, I manage to weather this one fairly well. And meeting my great-grandmother doesn't even seem surreal in comparison.

"Hello Mrs. Potter," I manage after only a moment or two of awkward silence, "and please call me Ced."

She smiled, and some of the tension was released. I took a deep breath. "Oh, but Cederic is such a beautiful name. I think I'll stick to that, if you don't mind." I give a little bow of my head and a twist of my arm to convey indifference and acceptance, "and, if you must be formal, it's Madam Potter – I'm a healer, but that couldn't possibly matter in the least. Call me Matilda."

There was a slight pause. "Come in, come in! You must be freezing out there."

It actually wasn't so bad, but I enjoyed coming in to get away from the lingering stiffness of the discourse.

"Albus, take your cousin right on into the sitting room. I'll be in presently."

As we walked down the wood panelled hallway, I heard Matilda call for Tippy, her house elf or, I guess, possibly her house elf, Tippy, to set another place.

The wood panelled hallway was plastered with black and white pictures of Matilda and a dark haired serious man with glasses. There were also several pictures of a little child with all the curls of his mother and all the seriousness of his father. Further down the hallway, there were several other pictures, each piled with men and women in various types of robes and at various places. I even saw several photographs taken at Hogwarts.

Soon enough, Albus steers me into the sitting room. Eight people are already inside. The serious man and his almost as serious son from the pictures in the hallway stood by the roaring fireplace. I have to keep reminding myself that these two are my great-grandfather and grandfather. The man has dark brown hair, and the boy has lighter brown hair. The man's hair is sleek and neat; the boy wears curly hair that, though clearly washed, is not quite controlled. I see the origins of the catastrophe that is the famous hair of my father and me.

There is also another man standing with them. He has long, lanky black hair, piercing blue eyes, and an aristocratic, though not unpleasant, demeanour. Before them all are two couches. On one couch sits two children. The girl looks to be about Charlus's age and has the same lanky black hair of, who I could only assume is, her father. I can't see her eyes. The other child has black hair too, but his is wavier. Still, his piercing blues eyes suggest that he is another of the same family. That hypothesis is made more plausible by the woman who perched herself on a too small chair by the other couch. She is quite clearly taller than, who I cannot help but assume is, her husband. She might even be taller than Albus. Her hair is a curly auburn.

The last two in the room are both blonde, though the man's hair is approaching brown. They sit together on the other couch, and their closeness suggests that they are either dating or newlyweds. They are certainly young enough. They also seem to be in an animated, perhaps even heated, discussion with the tall auburn woman.

For the record, although everyone but the girl wears frills, their colours do are not painful. Fuck – no, wait, let's make that damn – Albus and his gaudy baubles.

This I manage to take in during the six seconds it takes Albus to lead me towards my ancestors and make a small bow. The bow is returned with solemnity. Then both men break into grins and embrace.

Stepping back, Albus gestures to me, "Harold, may I introduce you to my cousin – Cederic Dumbledore."

He bows to me and I bow back to him, feeling somewhat awkward. "It's nice to meet you sir," I put in.

He smiles at that, and I am relieved to know that he is not quite as serious as I had feared. "And you as well young man." He then gestures to Charlus, "This is my son, Charlus Potter."

The kid bows to me and I bow back, still not quite sure if this is what I'm supposed to be doing.

After a moment or two in which no one says anything, and I have the increasingly powerful suspicion that I have screwed up somehow, Harold turns to the other man. "And this, Mr. Dumbledore, is Cygnus Black."

That throws me off somewhat. The man looks nothing like Sirius but for, perhaps, his hair. I try to think back on the black family tapestry, trying to figure out how this Cygnus is related. I know that Sirius had an uncle Cygnus, but this can't possibly be the same man for he looks almost fifty and we still have thirty-five years before Sirius is born. Perhaps this man's son is that Cygnus.

I manage to recover after only a moment, a moment mostly consumed by our bows anyway. Then I say, "Pleasure to meet you sir." Turning to Harold, who I've just realised is almost certainly my namesake, I manage, "Albus speaks so highly of you Mr. Potter that I must insist you call me Cederic."

"That's very generous of you." I notice that the offer is not returned.

Albus and Cygnus have greeted each other during this time. I was so preoccupied that I couldn't tell how close those two were. The Potters having the Blacks over for an intimate dinner. Definitely not what I expected.

The next thing I know, I am addressed once more. This time by Cygnus, "Albus tells me that you are here from Canada by way of France Mr. Dumbledore."

"Oui Monsieur." They all laugh at my weak attempt at humour.

"What are your plans?"

"Well, although I am half a year from being of age," Albus was right to insist that I pretend to be sixteen; we need me this young if I was to be assimilated without raising too many question. Luckily for the plan, though sadly for me, I'm still sort of small and scrawny. "My education has been uneven," I continue, "So, Albus says that I should join the Hogwarts fifth years, taking these next several months to fix the holes in my education, and then take my OWLs come June. After that, I plan to finish my education in Britain as normal."

"Very good." He seems to approve of me more now, and I am unsure what I said that made the difference. "My son is a fourth year Slytherin. Allow me to introduce you."

"With pleasure." I don't feel pompous enough when I say that.

We walk over to the two children sitting on one couch. They both stand as their father approaches. The girl's eyes are blue too, but there is something off. Cygnus's son reminds me somewhat of Draco Malfoy, or maybe everything Draco Malfoy had wished he was as a child. Black's demeanour is aristocratic, like his father's, but touched with a haughtiness that I remember from Draco before he was a Death Eater.

The girl was more interesting. Though she stood, her back wasn't arched almost painfully high like the back of her brother. She slumped a little to the side even. Her eyes I now notice are softer than those of the rest of the family. There is something else that seems off about the girl, but I still can't figure out what. And I don't quite have the time to think on it too.

"Mr. Dumbledore, allow me to introduce you to Pollux Black, my son, and my daughter, Cassiopeia Black."

I bow to them both. Pollux bows back, and Cassiopeia smile sweetly but doesn't otherwise move. The undefined sense of 'off-ness,' not as if that's a word, becomes stronger.

Again I'm interrupted in my thoughts as Cygnus starts speaking. "Pollux, Cassiopeia, Mr. Cederic Dumbledore is the son of Albus's late cousin and will join Hogwarts this coming term as a fifth year. He plans on finishing his education with us here as well." Turning to me, Cygnus continues, "as I said, Pollux is a fourth year Slytherin. Cassiopeia will be joining Hogwarts next year along with Charlus."

Cassiopeia pipes in then, and her voice is surprisingly mature. "I should be attending this year, but, apparently, if you turn eleven the day after the Express leaves, you're stranded for a full year at home. It seems somewhat unfair, as my cousin Callidora is only a week older than me, and she's already at Hogwarts."

Cassiopeia seemed intent, fascinated almost, on telling me this story. I'd seen similar behaviour in children before, though admittedly my experience with kids was thin. I also remembered the sentiment, if not the expression, from myself, a small beast in an awkwardly shrinking cage under the stairs. It was a hoped for commiseration, and the beginning of voiced betrayal; the first sense that the world was not fair and that the elder, and ergo more powerful, ought to make it so.

I had nothing for her but torture, massacre, loss, mayhem, murder, and betrayal – booms of death dealing light and flashes of cacophonous explosions.

Again I am saved by Cygnus. "I shall leave you and Pollux to speak of Hogwarts, Mr. Dumbledore." A breath with a glare at his daughter. "Cassiopeia – come with me."

And they wonder off towards Charlus. This leaves Pollux and me to explore that inevitable gap in conversation, as the two just introduced size each other up, both fearing to commit to conversation but knowing that too is inevitable. Eventually, one of us must have the courage to pop the silence of infinite possibilities, to commit our acquaintance down one path and away from countless others.

Well, I wasn't sorted into Gryffindor for nothing, "So, I hear that Hogwarts has five electives. Which do you take?"

I can tell Pollux relaxes immediately. He's comfortable with Hogwarts. "Four actually – there are four electives. There's arithmancy, ancient runes, magical creatures, and, everyone's favourite, divination." His joke is a little weak, but I laugh anyways, and it frees up some of the tension. He continues, "Clearly, I take divination," and the eye roll tells me he's lying even if his tone hadn't. We smile at each other, and a second later he adds, "I actually take ancient runes and magical creatures."

"I have studied runes and arithmancy myself." He makes a face. "What?" I question, not without humour.

"Mathematics," he looks over my shoulder, as if he's about to tell me a secret, "well, it's just shite, isn't it?"

I give a real laugh at that. "Well, I like it, but I understand your point." He looks somewhat sheepish, but none of the 'adults' heard us, so it's not a problem.

We spend our time in small talk. I can tell that he enjoys my company. Of course, there's nothing not to enjoy. I spend the entire time asking him about his life, his friends, his exploits, and his pursuits at Hogwarts. Most people love talking about themselves to those who truly seem to care. And I do care, though not quite in the way I try to make him believe.

I want information.

I get it too, quite a bit of it. It seems Slytherin's great rival now is Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor. This makes a certain amount of sense. Britain has known nothing but peace and prosperity for longer than living memory. In that situation, it's the cunning, ambitious, and knowledgeable – not the powerful, ambitious, and brave – who rule the world.

Also, Albus is the head of Gryffindor tower. He has a way of making transgressors cower in shame.

Right when I'm running out of material to dissect, and right when he's starting to get interested in me, we're called to dinner. The walk from the sitting room into the dining room is done under cover of heavy drapes. Deep-set reds and blues line the walls. Though the colours are different, the effect reminds me of the Hogwarts dungeon on a particularly damp day.

The dining room, on the other hand, is broad, bright, and beautiful. Although clearly in the centre of the house, each wall sports four windows. Each set of four look out onto sundry pastoral scenes in various climates. Currently, they're all winter scenes. Whether this is because it's winter or simply coincidence, I cannot tell. Either way, there is a particular breathtaking view of what looks like the Alps draped in snow. Then there is another outlook of an uncovered yet spartan plane. Another shows a forest feeling the weight of, what appear to be, the first touches of winter flakes on their boughs. Finally, there is a snow encircled lake with sheets of clear ice rubbing against each other.

The room takes my breath away.

The rosy cheeked man with dirty blonde hair who sat on the couch opposite my own while I talked with Pollux appears at my left elbow. "It's rather unspeakably gorgeous, is it not?"

I nod, hoping he'll get my joke. He doesn't seem to, but a light trill of laughter from my right signals that his wife understands perfectly.

She speaks, and I marvel at how her voice still echoes with her laugh, "Hello Mr. Dumbledore. I hope you don't think us too rude to talk to you before we've been properly introduced." She waits for my obligatory head shake. "Good, good – my name is Amelia Abbot, nee Lawson, and this is my husband William."

I nod at them as they lead me towards the centre of the table. Amelia sits to my left, closer to the head of the table, and her husband walks around to sit on the other end. Across from me sits Pollux. To my right sits Cassiopeia. Across from her sits Charlus.

"Hello Mrs. Abbot. Please call me Cederic." Apparently Ced is a no-go. I tried it with Pollux too and didn't get anywhere. I wait until we settle ourselves and the salad course appears before us before I continue the conversation, looking at Mr. Abbot. "And yes sir, you're absolutely right. This room is quite impressive."

Little Charlus pipes in at that. "My grandmother did it herself. Yup, she enchanted everything. And my grandfather built it all. It's so cool. She was really good at enchanting stuff, but my grandfather was better at transfiguration. I hope to beat them both and be good at both."

Pollux speaks up, "you can't be that good at both. No one's that good at magic." He shot a quick look down the table, then to me. "Well, besides Professor Dumbledore that is."

Their argument was interrupted by Mrs. Abbot claiming my attention yet again. "So Cederic, your cousin tells me that you have a particular interest in charms."

I find myself swallowing my mouthful of salad a little too quickly. I manage to keep myself from coughing through sheer force of will as I answer, "Yes ma'am—"

"Please Cederic, call me Amelia. I'm not that many years older than you."

"Sure thing Amelia." There's a slightly awkward delay. I'm can't remember about what we were talking.

"So charms?"

"Ah yes, charms." I breathe, "Charms and I just click in a way that the rest of magic doesn't. I particularly like complex charms and enchanting."

"Have you heard of the new mirrors, then?"

'I'm sure I have,' I think to myself. But that's impossible to say, so instead I just think of everything I know about mirrors. There isn't much. Some can be used for communication. Some can be used to help seamstresses see what clothes would look like on people. And some are just plain mirrors.

"No actually – what about mirrors?"

"Well," she seems rather excited too, and I wonder what her profession is, "you know how portraits require blood to imbue them with the speech and, more importantly, personality that goes with them?"

"Of course."

"Well, now Agatha Kegg just found a way – she hasn't disclosed how – to create mirrors that talk and have a personality. Apparently, she doesn't use blood at all."

I can actually make a talking mirror. I stumbled across the arithmetic formula in the first real year of war. I didn't know it had been invented so recently; talking mirrors seemed to be everywhere. The arithmetic formula was in the same book that told me how to enchant two-way mirrors, which we used instead of patronus – which is actually the plural, since the original word is a fourth declension, not a second – since the light from the patronus gave away our locations and got too many people killed. It's probably not a good idea to tell Amelia that, though.

Smiling, I say, "If she isn't giving away the formula, then how do you know she isn't using blood?"

The woman pouts at me, which I think is a little too flirty with her husband being across the table. But William starts laughing his head off, so I guess I'm in the clear.

"That's exactly what I said to her," says the still laughing husband.

"Why would she lie about that?" insists Amelia.

Well, that was an easy question. There are hundreds of reasons why someone would lie about accomplishing momentous feats of magic. Just look at Lockhart. Of course, I know that Agatha Kegg doesn't used blood in her formula, so I guess I should cut Agatha's memory and Amelia's self a break.

"She probably didn't. Just trying to keep you honest. Maybe she augmented a French charm that was popular in the thirteenth century. The aristocracy went sort of insane and started to infuse all of their property with personalities. They bled half the muggles in the country to do it too."

William and Amelia both look a little ill, but it's a true story. If you've ever seen Disney's _Beauty and the Best_, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Why someone would want a talking candelabrum, I haven't the foggiest. But there you have it.

Neither of them seem quite comfortable continuing the conversation after that, and I have run out of anecdotes of random French cruelty, so I turn to Pollux who has been watching us talk and his sister and Charlus argue in turn. "Pollux." He jumps at my sudden start. While I swallow a laugh, I can't hide my smile. "Do you play Quidditch?"

And we're off to the races. It appears he does. He's the keeper. And he just cannot resist telling me everything about the Slytherin team for the last four years. His exuberance does have two benefits, though. First, Amelia and William lose interest almost immediately. Second, Charlus and Cassiopeia stop their argument to listen.

It turns out that I struck gold with Quidditch. After less than five minutes, Cassiopeia and, to a lesser extent, Charlus take over my part of the conversation. I contribute occasionally, but mostly they allow me to sit back, enjoy my meal, and listen with equal measure to them and their parents.

Towards the end of the meal, this fine balance is finally interrupted. I didn't hear most of my great-grandmother's question, except that she inquired after Amelia's sister. Amelia's response, however, arrested us all.

After a soft bellow of frustration, Amelia starts speaking with a high whine in her voice. "Oh Matilda, it's horrid. I don't know what we're going to do. I already gave up the Lawson name when I married William, expecting that, as the eldest, Marietta would keep the Larson name, unless, of course, she married a Black or a Prewitt or what have you. But no, she's marrying the Bones character, and he's making her change her name."

"Making her?" Albus inquires.

"Yes. He refuses to change his name to Lawson. He says that men don't do that," Cygnus gives a derisive snort. "I know!" Amelia agrees with whatever sentiment he seemed to have so clearly expressed, that so clearly flitted over my head. Amelia continues, "of course, Marietta doesn't agree with his vulgar views, but she won't give up the man. She keeps going on and on about how much she loves him, how much he loves her."

"So instead she'll simply abandon her family's honour and name?" Cygnus's wife askes with incredulity.

Amelia gives a little desperate shrug, "apparently Violetta. I don't know what's gotten into her."

"The mudblood clearly," smirks Cygnus. Every adult groans at the joke, while I still. 'Mudblood,' they said. Clear as day, they used the dirtiest curse I know without thought or care. Even Albus simply laughed at the joke.

My brain doesn't start for a while after that, as I simply sit there, unhearing, while I process what just occurred. There are times in life when a word or a movement or a sound just throws you for such a loop that you can't quite look at the world the same way ever again. I remembered when Minister Fudge refused to accept Sirius's innocence. My world broke that night; never again did I quite trust authority figures; never again did I trust the Ministry at all.

And yet here were good people – friends, family, a mentor and new cousin even – using language that I have come to expect from only those who toss around the cruciatus for fun. These are clearly good people, yet their language put them firmly on the side of my greatest enemy.

Then I heard the word muggle, and thrust my thoughts aside as I listened in closer. Harold is speaking, "You know, Cygnus, that we mostly agree with you on the muggleborn question—"

"But?"

"But... we don't like the idea of trying to solidify our various cultural practices through legislation. There are too many different traditions, and, Amelia's sister aside, everyone knows that the greater bloodline's name takes priority. Why else would I give up MacDonald? It's a good name, but Potter is older and we're working to make it one of the great names of history. I'm proud of my new name, just like I'm sure you'd expect Cassiopeia to be proud of her husband's name if she marries the last of his line or a superior bloodline."

Before Cygnus can respond, Matilda disagrees. "That's not the point Harry," there is a tone of exasperation in her voice, and I'm starting to think that this is not a new argument, "it's this Bones's insistence that it's his name that takes priority, that his wife must take his name, that it would be improper for him to take the name of what is clearly a superior bloodline. And this isn't isolated. It's leaking in from the muggles everywhere."

"It's true Mr. Potter," Pollux puts in. All the adults swivel on him. He gulps. It's actually sort of cute, and I wonder if pretending to be sixteen is going to be possible if everyone at Hogwarts is this young. "I mean... em... there's a muggleborn girl in my year, Dorothy... well, we were talking about marriage not a month ago, and it was scary, terrifying, what she expected for herself."

He looks really nervous now, and he leans forward as if to share a dirty secret. "She expected to be practically his property." There were disbelieving looks all the way around, "no, seriously, she expected to be no better than a house elf. Cooking a cleaning and taking care of kids and doing nothing else, but, well," he shoots a look at the younger kids, then turns back and tries to hide his true meaning, "and be a ... gift... whenever he wanted her."

"This is what Violetta and I are have been saying to the Wizengamot," added Cygnus.

"There is some truth," cut in the soft voice of Albus, immediately grabbing all attention, "in that the muggle population has doubled in the last fifty years, which may explain the dramatic increase new muggleborns entering Hogwarts. This in turn probably accounts for how much more of their culture has filtered into our world."

"That can't be all of it, though," interjects Amelia. She is still in a tizzy. "After all, there are about six new muggleborns a year. There used to be only one or two."

And then I'm speaking, surprising no one more than myself I'm sure, "Well, it's not just population control, it's culture. It was barely two hundred years ago when we started to hide ourselves from the muggles. You remember the history. Our treaty with the Vatican dissolved, the new Churches that sprouted most everywhere, especially here, hoping to exterminate us. Mobs – one hundred muggles to one warlock – breaking out all over the country. That's what you remember."

Nods around the table. "Yeah, 'cause even then, they outnumbered us about 500 to one." More nods, "but what we never learn now is that their culture has changed dramatically."

"Clearly not enough," Amelia snipes with narrowed eyes.

"No," I put my hands, the perfect picture of surrender, "I'm not trying to excuse Bones's behaviour or the pathetic sexism of the muggles. What I am saying is something different. The god they used to justify our extermination in the 17th century is no more. They haven't given him up entirely, but he's been mostly relegated. Where we might have visited nine families in the past and only one accepted our offer of magical training. Now we visit these same nine families and all but one or two, maybe three, accept. I think that's the major difference as to why we're seeing such an influx of muggleborns."

There is silence for quite some time after this. Then Albus speaks, "Cederic is correct. Agatha has told me that even in her decade as headmistress, the percentage of muggles accepting positions at Hogwarts has increased rather dramatically. It apparently has something to do with their Great War."

Of course, World War One – I didn't know how I could have forgotten.

"This Great War," I say, "destroyed most of eastern France and much of western Germany. Hundreds of thousands would die in a single day." They didn't seem quite that impressed with the number, which I thought foolish, given that the magical population of Britain couldn't have been more than fifteen thousand even after so long a peace.

So I pound the table; everyone jumps, "I'm not kidding here people – literally over a hundred thousand men would die in a single day, and this sacrifice would gain the sides maybe a mile of land, maybe just several yards. Then there was this thing called the hundred day offensive. Almost two million – two _million_, no joke – men died."

Talk about leaving them speechless.

It was Cygnus, unsurprisingly, who broke the detente, "Mr. Dumbledore, what's your point?"

And that's when I realised that I didn't have one. So I thought of the only thing that could possibly tie this back together, and maybe prepare them for what was to come, "Their god has been blasted to dust. They desperately search for meaning. I'm sure many of the muggleborns will find it here, but our culture is so far in advance of their own, well, it must be terrifying for them, overwhelming, and, in many ways, seem wrong. But they are wound so tight, and the horror in the muggle world won't help. I guess what I'm saying is that it's just a powder keg waiting to happen."

"Powder keg?" asked Amelia.

I didn't quite have a good analogy. Luckily, I was saved by Albus. "Like an incendio gone awry."

This thrust us all into another deep spurt of contemplation.

This time Violetta broke it, "So what are you saying Mr. Dumbledore? Are you for us who say we must regulate our culture before these backwards buffoons can damage it too beyond repair or are you with the Potters and hope that our culture's natural superiority will win the day?"

So I thought. I knew enough about muggle culture of the 1920s to know that I didn't want that to predominate. Homophobia, hatred of sex, sexism, racism, disgust for anything that, as my Uncle Vernon would have said, was 'freakish' or 'unnatural' or even simply 'different.' But I also knew the wizard bigotry well too. Despite their use of 'mudblood,' these Blacks did not seem as bad as the ones I knew from my own time. Still, I could see the shadow of Lucius Malfoy in them.

Plus, six new muggleborns a year would not be enough to change the society. Even more than that, some of those new muggleborns were women, who would certainly jump at the chance of equality among us over their near serfdom in muggle Britain. There was always the chance that the muggleborns convinced some purebloods and halfbloods to deform magical Britain till it appeared like its muggle equivalent. But, even then, the muggleborns would have to convince an impossibly huge part of the Britain before their voices were heard.

I address Amelia with my answer, "I don't think we should do anything legislatively. Our culture right now is superior, but, if we start passing laws, I fear that we'll start restricting the rights of muggleborns like that Bones want to restrict the rights of people like your sister."

"I think that's well said," agrees Harold.

"Well, we are superior," adds Cygnus with a smirk.

"We're not going to have this fight again?" asks William in serious humour.

"Yes, let us not," says Albus, "after all, I think the point is that we do not need to regulate the superiority if it truly exists. The cream will rise to the top, as they say."

Violetta gives a rumble of laughter, before turning to me. "Thank you Mr. Dumbledore, for your contribution. You clearly know much more about the muggle world than any of us do."

"Yes," agrees Cygnus, "if I have any questions on them, may I owl you?"

"Of course," I agree.

There was some part of me, even then, that worried what domino I had just knocked down.


	3. Of Murder

**Author's Notes: **

First, I'd like to thank all of my reviewers. Not only is it simply nice to know that my work is being appreciated (even in the traditional, and possibly negative, sense of the word), but it's nice to see some of my own ideas reflected back to me. I try to make sure that I get back to each of you. Make sure to tell me if you'd like me to respond.

Second, there is a part of this chapter where Harry must make a momentous decision (it will be fairly obvious when you read it). I had so much fun writing it because, quite honestly, I wasn't sure how Harry would decide until I almost finished writing. I knew he had to make the decision, but I was torn as to which decision he would make, though I knew, vaguely, how both would affect the world.

Third, I have seen on other FFs where authors give a sort of puzzle to their readers. I never participated in this, but I am curious to know if the little puzzles are effective in both generating ideas and getting some greater participation. Thus, here is my puzzle:

There is a pairing for Harry; I know who the woman is, and I know how they're going to meet. If you're interested in his progression, then please guess the identity of this mystery woman. I will tell you if you are correct (and tease you with some more information if you're on the right track).

And here is one clue to the puzzle: Harry will be reluctant to start a relationship with this woman because of who she is. I will not tell you if you know the woman from canon or if you simply know her relatives.

Enjoy!

And thanks for reading.

**Last Time:**

I address Amelia with my answer, "I don't think we should do anything legislatively. Our culture right now is superior, but, if we start passing laws, I fear that we'll start restricting the rights of muggleborns like that Bones wants to restrict the rights of people like your sister."

"I think that's well said," agrees Harold.

"Well, we are superior," adds Cygnus with a smirk.

"We're not going to have this fight again?" asks William in serious humour.

"Yes, let us not," says Albus, "after all, I think the point is that we do not need to regulate the superiority if it truly exists. The cream will rise to the top, as they say."

Violetta gives a rumble of laughter, before turning to me. "Thank you Mr. Dumbledore, for your contribution. You clearly know much more about the muggle world than any of us do."

"Yes," agrees Cygnus, "if I have any questions on them, may I owl you?"

"Of course," I agree.

There was some part of me, even then, that worried what domino I had just knocked down.

**Chapter Three: Of Murder**

It had been four days since the dinner at my ancestors. The last three days saw me doing little but lounging around the house in which my parents were murdered. Three days that were, for all intents and purposes, exactly like the thirty days before my little time travel trip. Albus spent his days at Hogwarts preparing for the upcoming term, leaving me alone.

On the first day, I set about repairing my relationship with Crookshanks. It was difficult. He ignored his toys and he'd swipe at my outstretched hand. He even burrowed under the covers, or a chair, or a bureau whenever I entered the room. Finally, he consented to be pet after a bribe of almost a pound of tuna.

On the second day, I unpacked in the morning. I grabbed the rest of my weapons, and pocketed them or repacked them. I wouldn't need six knives in Hogwarts, I wouldn't even need one. For the rest of the day, I mostly lay in bed wishing that I had a goal, something to do, and not simply to wait for another term to start. I slept quite a lot that day.

On the third day, I would occasionally fantasise about stabbing my eye out with my wand – just for a little excitement.

This boredom was punctured at night. Albus arrived home late, and our conversations would extend until the early morning hours. This was my favourite part of each day, for I finally got to know the man, or at least part of him, who had been so much in control of my life. We spoke mostly of magic – the use of transfiguration in everyday life, of wards, even of magical farming. Albus would sometimes try and engage me emotionally, but I resisted with coarse course correction – sorry, sudden topic changes.

Still, he would bring it up again and again. I left him frustrated, however. I absolutely refused to talk about my times. Occasionally, I'd even stand and walk out of the room if he persisted too long.

Yet he asked me again the next day. Hermione would say that my inability to talk about the war made my remembrance of it worse. I was of the firm belief that speaking about it at all would make it worse. And I didn't want it to get worse. From my outburst at my ancestors, I knew that I wasn't yet over the war.

Maybe I never would be.

That was one benefit of the long days of boredom. I had as long as I needed, far more time than I wanted, to think. Hours upon hours I lay in bed doing nothing else. As the sun started to set on the third day, only twenty minutes before Albus would returned, I'd come to a sort of understanding.

I was damaged, except it wasn't being actually broken. That doesn't make sense, I know, which is always the problem when you try to put pure understanding into words. So, let's go over this slowly.

I never quite had a friend or colleague take my side, at least until I was completely in charge. That may sound rather arrogant, whiney, and angst-y – after all, what are friends for but to point out, and support you through, your failings. But my point isn't that I should always be in charge or that everyone should always agree with me so much as I never had anyone who understood that my rash actions were part of why I always came out alive. The logical connection there really isn't. Fuck, bugger, damn, shit... blah! This is why I was never good at relationships. Girls demand talking, and here I am trying to explain it to myself and even that's not working.

There is some irony in the fact that I'm trying to explain in a logical pattern of forethought and explanation exactly why I am not a person who relies on logic, forethought, or explanation.

Okay, let's try one more time. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia always told me I was lazy, stupid, weak, and unthankful. In retrospect, I see how wrong they were, how cruel they were being. And Ron, of all people, eventually got it into my thick head that they weren't right. But, at the time, I thought they were right. So, what did I do? Naturally, I became unnaturally humble and painfully thankful. In a way, my eleven to thirteen-year-old self sort of reminds me of Dobby.

Then I became a teenager, and years of being better, I won't say good, treatment took their toll. I started to rebel. I chafed under Snape's cruelties, and was told that I should respect my elders. I suffered under the Ministry's idiocy and was told that there was nothing good people could do but be even more good and even more passive. And I was chased, beaten, broken, and tortured beyond death – once literally– by Death Eaters, their spawn, and Voldemort himself; to this, I was told to persevere and accomplish the impossible.

Uncle Vernon told me I was ungrateful. Hermione told me I was too impulsive. Snape told me I was too arrogant. McGonagall told me to keep my head down. Dumbledore told me to forgive.

Yet, through it all, I remained relatively unchanged, though rather unhappy. I yelled at idiocy, ranted at inaction, and would rather blast a hole through a roof than beg to be allowed through the front door. I felt as if I was failing not only myself but also my friends. I felt as if my innermost desires and passions were marks of inhumanity at best or a sacrilege at worst.

And so, sometime after I saw Snape blast Dumbledore's corpse off Hogwarts's tallest tower, I concluded that I was broken, that something was innately wrong with me. Again, this whole thing sounds painfully juvenile, as if the world has arrayed against me and it's so not fair and I wish it was just fair. Of course, the world was arrayed against me at it wasn't fair, but I had realised, probably sometime when I suffered under Umbridge, that the world wasn't meant to be fair.

So, since I still felt as if it should be fair, since I still was impulsive and couldn't forgive, and since I couldn't just keep my head down, I determined that there must be something innately wrong with me, that I must be broken.

Now, if this was a fairytale, I would then say that I spent my seventh year fixing myself whilst fixing the world. And, towards the end, right when I finally overcame whatever innate personality defect I had, I discovered that my best friend, or my best friends sister maybe, was the love of my life and had been secretly helping me along the whole while. Then I lived happily ever after.

Yeah, we know how well that would have worked out. Instead, I decided to put this 'discovering myself' crap on hold. Fuck fixing myself, I needed to fix the fucked up world.

I hunkered down, made McGonagall turn Hogwarts into a fortress, and slowly went about liberating the fucking world. Along the way, I lost most of my soldiers and pretty much all of my friends. But I did something. There were battles, and, though we lost far too many, we took at least two of them for every one of us. And we were kids, few of us long out of Hogwarts. It was just like the Department of Mysteries all over again.

Thinking back on this over the last several days, I realise something quite important. As amazing as Albus is and was, as supportive as Ron was, as brilliant as Hermione was, as loving as Mrs. Weasley was, as steady as Ginny was, as comforting as Remus was, as helpful as Snape was, none of them ever endorsed Harry Potter plans (well, Ron did occasionally). And, in the end, and note that it was only after they were gone, it was a Harry Potter plan that won it all.

Sometimes, dictatorship makes a whole heap of sense.

They all thought I was broken, damaged, or in some ways defective. And though I'm sure that I'm not perfect yet – I'm not yet quite that arrogant – I'm fairly fucking fantastic! And struggling underneath the weight of guilt that I've suffered with pretty much my whole life isn't making me any better.

See, the sad part is, for all the horror of that last year, for all that I'd never want to relive it, I also had some of my happiest moments during it. I had good friends with whom I did important work. It was like the DA my fifth year. Um-bitch might have been as much fun as a serrated butt plug, but at least living below her laws meant that I didn't have to live up to her expectations.

It was the same whenever I did something truly great. McGonagall's refusal to listen about the stone never stopped me from saving it. Lockhart's sadistic need for fame never stopped me from killing the monster and saving the girl. And Snape's desperate need for revenge never stopped me from saving Sirius's very soul.

I wish that there were a clever life lesson to be had now. I wish that I could say my life was changed, my behaviour was changed, or that this was even really a revelation in any real way for me. But life doesn't work that way. I had been acting as if I was normal and whole, though perhaps cracked, since not long after Hermione died.

It just took these last three days for me explain it to myself in one, clean, uninterrupted stream of babble.

Whatever – fuck this introspective shit, let's get down to brass tacks – not those loser, pansy-ass steel ones. It's time for another Potter Plan. It's time to stop analysing shit and to start actually making it happen.

See, whilst I dealt with this angst, other questions started to present themselves. Mostly, these questions have been in the form of worries. For example, I have no idea what the Sorting Hat will think of the mess in my head. This might not be a problem, as I don't even know if it can get past regular occlumency shields, to say nothing of mine.

I don't know if I can ever set up a Gringotts account. To the best of my, admittedly limited, knowledge, you need to submit blood if you hope to open any real account. Having Potter blood show up among the goblins is not quite what I want to be doing. I trust goblins about as far as I can throw Gringotts.

Going from the mundane to the momentous, I don't know how I'm going to react to Grindelwald when he starts gaining power. And, more to the present point, I have to figure out what I was going to do about Voldemort.

So, I'm going to go to London with a plan inspired by Snape's most common criticism of me – that I always thought I had a perfect plan when I really had no plan whatsoever. Instead of thinking I have a foolproof plan, and then jumping in way over my head, I'm going to deal with baby Riddle with perfect knowledge that I have no idea what the fuck I'm going to do. I have the beginnings of a plan, the stirrings of a plan, I even thought of several plans, but I'm not going to commit to one. Somehow, I doubt that Snape would appreciate the irony.

So, with Albus out of the house yet again, I disappeared from Godric's Hollow with a small crack.

With a pop, I appeared in Diagon Alley. I apparated to the designated apparation point, to the hole in the wards. Except, I didn't actually. I apparated to where the designated apparition point had been. I apparated to right before a small shop selling used clothes and flying carpets.

Luckily, I didn't apparate besides anyone. I have had enough of randomly appearing places and scaring the daylights out of everyone involved. Still, I move from blocking the entrance. I have things to do.

My first thought is that Diagon Alley isn't warded against apparation in this time. It's a weird realisation. Everything was defined by those wards, and Diagon Alley was the only wizarding space, besides Hogwarts, that didn't really fall to Voldemort because of them.

My second thought is that time travel really fucks with your sense of space. Diagon Alley was completely different, and not just because it lacked an apparation point.

The best word to describe it would probably be 'seedy.' It's as if I'm in the pre-war Knockturn Alley, or maybe even Devet's Alley, which turns, or perhaps will turn, off just after Borgin & Burk's. Either way, with just a cursory glance, I see cursed silverware, a House-Elf emporium, and preserved human hearts for potion making. What will become Eelyops Owl Emporium is what appeared to be a polyjuice brothel house.

Good to know, I guess, but not quite what I expected. As I walk to what will be The Leaky Cauldron, I wonder what could have changed so much in the magical world. Getting to the pub, I realise something else rather unfortunate. It isn't there. In its place sits a black wall.

I start running the gambit of diagnostic spells. My first spell reveals that there is something magical where the entrance would have been. My second spell is often used to determine if there is a trigger phrase or action that ignites the magic, like on the Hogwarts common rooms or the Hogwarts kitchen. It reveals nothing. My third spell, used to reveal the type of magic involved, shows a charm and a recurring transfiguration, which was held by two other charms working in congress.

It's incredibly complicated magic. I could unwind it; for the life of me I couldn't cast it. Bill was the only one who could cast it with any skill. Flitwick would do in a pinch, but he'd need about three tries to get it right.

Luckily, given its use, there isn't much that this particular configuration could be. And I'm fairly sure I know what it is as I interrupt my fourth spell, which would have been a spell designed to highlight the grounding-stones. Instead, my fourth spell is to detect illusions, and it proves me right.

With a smile, I walk straight through the wall.

And find myself on Charing Cross Road, only to realise a fatal mistake with this whole plan. See, I've seen the innermost workings of Tom Riddle's orphanage, I've even seen it's entrance, but I don't actually know where in London it is. So, as muggle automobiles putter past me in infant joy, I look both ways before turning around and walking right back into Diagon Alley.

Fuck it. I didn't really want to do it this way, but I don't have the patience to wander about muggle London for hours hoping that I can find the orphanage without magic. My way's faster, and it's not as if I haven't done it before. Hermione, Ron, and I found the orphanage this way when we were searching for Horcruxes, at the very beginning of the war. It was the only time I ever tried a triple apparation, which I don't recommend to anyone, especially if you're going pretty much the entire length of the country.

With a crack, I again disappear. With a pop, I appear right before the tall, wide gates of a depressing, but well-kept building.

This time, though, I am not quite as lucky with my landing. I appear just besides an elderly couple walking down the street. The woman shouts and swings her handbag wildly. The man takes my sudden appearance a little worse. He falls. Only my preternatural reflexes save him from a sore arse and me from a bruised head.

"_Obliviate_, _Obliviate_." At least that problem isn't too hard to overcome.

With a look around, I confirm that no one else saw my sudden appearance. With that same look, I realise I'm still wearing a robe. With a wave of my wand, I change my robe into a pathetically ill-fitting suit. I told you that I sucked at transfiguration. I turn my robe back quickly enough, and thank my stares that I didn't screw that up. With yet another wave of my wand, I cast an illusion on my robe.

It's a version of a muggle repelling charm that Flitwick invented, which gave us rather wonderful flexibility in the war. The spell doesn't change anything about our robes. It doesn't even cast an illusion, as illusion spells are typically understood, about our robes. Instead, a muggle looking at our robes will do, more or less, what they do to the Leaky Cauldron. They'll notice it, but then think it's not worth their attention and immediately forget anything distinguishing about it.

Once that's done, I give a self-gratifying sigh, until I realise that this comedy of errors isn't quite over. See, whilst I changed my robes, changed them back, then cast the charm on them, well, the muggles I had obliviated still stood next to me.

Right now they were running away in terror. Once again I realised that a Potter Plan never goes smooth.

I check to make sure that no one is around; no one is. Actually, in 1927, the area around the orphanage is almost empty. I mean, it's not wilderness, but certainly more rural than even Little Whinging will become.

With a crack, I disappear. With a pop, I appear before the couple. They screech. I cringe. And with a double _obliviate_, none of the screeching, wincing, running, cracking, or popping matters.

I walk past them letting out another satisfied sigh. They give the piece of wood that I push up into my sleeve a glance, but I don't do anything completely weird, so I can let them go.

And I walk back to the orphanage. You have no idea how many junior obliviators forget to refrain from using magic after they've _obliviated_ the muggles. I actually have no idea either, but Tonks and Moody told me stories, so I'm going to pretend like I know exactly what I'm talking about. If you find it frustrating, then you're probably male. Seriously, make up shit and the birds eat it up.

Anyways, soon enough I'm back before the orphanage in clothes that they'll forget and with determination to do – well, that's kinda the problem. I don't know what I want to do. I know what I should do, but I also know that that's the last thing that I ought to do. My indecision lasts only a moment – a long one, true, but only a moment nonetheless – and then I'm walking through the gate towards to too large double doors.

I knock. There's absolute silence for forever, which is probably just thirty seconds. I knock again, and this time I count the time. A minute passed before I bring my hand up once more. The door opens.

A young red-faced woman stands before me. Her hair is in a loose braid. Her eyes are bright, and the rest of her face sharp. Her face strikes me powerfully, although her body is off. The woman is Mrs. Cole, or at least a near relation. But where I remember Mrs. Cole as a skinny, harassed looking thing, the woman before me is happy and full bodied.

"Excuse me," says the Mrs. Cole look alike. I realise that I've been starting at her chest. She doesn't seem fazed one bit, which is not something I'd expect from a muggle raised woman in the early 20th century.

"Em... yes, sorry." I shake my head, "Mrs. Cole?"

"No sir, I'm Dorothy Edwards." Her eyes are moving around behind me now, as if searching for danger, and I realise that I'm probably not making a good impression.

"Ah, yes, sorry. Could I please speak to the manager of the orphanage?"

"What for sir?"

"I'm looking for T—" and I cough. I almost asked for 'Tom Riddle,' which, if I'm to pull this off, I should not know. I clear my throat. "Sorry about that. I'm looking for a baby that may have been left here, a baby whose name may be Riddle."

Her eyes light up, and, if I needed any confirmation besides my own memories, I would have just struck pay dirt. She controls herself, however. "I'll be back with the director presently. Would you like to come in?"

"Yes, thank you." Done with the first hurtle.

And Ms. Edwards walks off in such a way that I almost hope she's giving me some extra emphasis. If she walks that way naturally, then she's going to be in a whole heap of trouble over the next two decades. If I'm right, though, then she'll be married within the decade.

My thoughts wonder from there, further and further into the gutter. I'm saved from being a rolling, churning ball of filth by the appearance of a stern man.

His features are as sharp as Ms. Edwards's, but his eyes are shadowed. His mouth is turned into a frown, yet it doesn't appear as if he's frowning. It's almost like his face as soured. His suit is quality, but frayed – a man of fine taste and limited budget.

He reminds me of a funeral director.

"Hello Mr..." the funeral director asks by way of greeting.

"Mr. Rochester," because orphanages bring out the literary in me.

He raises thick eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Yes Mr..." let's see how he likes the same trick.

"For whom are you looking?" Behind him, Ms. Edwards seems angry. I bet there's a story there. Then again, there are stories everywhere.

"A baby Riddle, or possibly Gaunt." Perhaps my uncertainty will assist me here.

"And what is your relationship to this child?"

I look at him, "So you do have him?"

The funeral director's eyes narrow. "And how do you know that he's male?"

Ms. Edwards behind him rolls her eyes. I feel like doing the same. "Thank you Mr. Whomever-you-are. You have now just confirmed not only that the baby is here, but also that he's a him."

"Huh?" This man should work for the Ministry of Magic he's so brilliant.

"See, I ask after a baby Riddle, and, instead of telling me he's not here, you inquire why I want to know, which you wouldn't do unless he was here. Now, I know that he's a he for very similar reasons. I asked if you had him, and you didn't say no, which further confirms that you have him by the way; instead, you asked how I knew the kid was male, thus confirming that the kid is male. May I see him?"

I can tell that I'm not Mr. Funeral Director's favourite person in the world right now. I can also tell that Ms. Edwards is trying really, really hard not to laugh. I give her a wink, and now she blushes. You catch me staring down your chest, then saunter your ass at me without even blinking, but I wink at you and you blush?

Women are fucking nuts.

After several seconds of bluster from Mr. Funeral Director, he finally answers, "Yes, he is here. His name is Tom Mervolo Riddle. But you will not see him until I know who you are sir."

I smile, "Mr. Rochester. I've told you this."

"That is only a name." He's quite distressed, and I know I'm being an ass, but it's too damn fun not to be. I really love actually doing something.

"Yes, but you still have not introduced yourself."

"I am Mr. Jones," to which I cannot help by reply silently 'of course you are.' Jones has got to be the most boring name ever imagined by the British psyche.

"I am a friend the Gaunt family, which is the family of the mother."

"And what is your interest sir?"

"I want to see how the child is."

"This is not a petting zoo, Mr. Rochester. We do not show off our orphans to please the public, however they might be related to the child."

I want to protest that the third person generic of 'public' is actually 'it,' not 'they,' but I think that might be a little much at this point, even for me.

"If you were family or if you were coming here to adopt the child, then we could talk. If you are just here to see," he makes the word sound painful and I wonder how far up the stick goes, "the child, then you must turn back and walk right out that door."

I growl and give a half-truth, hoping it will work. "Look – I understand that you're trying to protect him, and I thank you for that. But let me make this as clear as possible. The child's maternal uncle is imprisoned. The child's maternal grandfather is imprisoned. The child's father wants nothing to do with him, and his paternal grandparents don't know he exists. I, as a friend of his late mother, would like to see what I can do. But, until I figure out exactly what I can do, I would like to see the child."

True tragedy has a way of sobering people, of beating down their illusion of grandeur. Ego is a powerful tool, a potent weakness, but I don't have time for it. Still, somehow this bloke manages: "however noble your intensions are, I'm sorry but we can't show you the children unless you're interested in adopting one."

"Unless I'm in the market," I add. I just want to make sure we both know what we're talking about. Again, the funeral director seems to be incomprehensive while Ms. Edwards is heroically restraining her laughter. "Are you sure you can't make an exception for an old family friend," I add, just in case – although, at this point, I almost want to do this the hard way.

"No," he replies promptly. Pause. Then, with unction, he adds, "You may leave now."

"Okay, fuck this." And now they both seem offended. To be fair, Ms. Edwards seems more surprised than offended.

I withdraw my wand in a fluid movement. Mr. Funeral Director says "what the..." as Ms. Edwards's eyes grow large.

"_Philia_, _Philia_" I say, and the two are blinking stupidly at me.

Mr. Funeral Director then asks, "Wait, what were we talking about?"

"I was asking you to take me to Tom Riddle."

"Ah yes, of course. Right this way." And I follow behind them.

Magic really is extraordinary sometimes. The poorly named 'love curse' is an old derivation of the _imperius_ curse, though it isn't illegal at all. What it does is induce in the subject immense feelings of friendship and companionship. Useful in situations where the subject is opposed to the caster and not the action or in situations, like this, where the subject is simply authoritarian and unreasonable.

Otherwise, the spell is quite useless. See, if you tell the subject to do anything truly contrary to his personality or bodily integrity, from something as simple as 'take off your clothes' to as extreme as 'jump off a cliff,' even most muggles can toss it off. It's actually one of the first things magical children learn, sort of like how muggles learn not to get into a car with strangers. Magical children are told that, if you suddenly feel much more comfortable around someone you don't know well at all, as if they're your best mates, then get help as fast as you can because they probably cast a spell on you.

So, it's a useful little spell, though I feel a twinge embarrassed about using it. I know I said it was perfectly legal, but my time in the muggle world had instilled in me a deep, deep fear of mucking with people's minds. The muggles have a much broader definition of what 'forcing' someone really means, and, as much as I prefer the magical world, I always think the muggles have the right of this question.

See, the magical world believes that, as long as you don't actually squash another's will, such as with the _imperius_ curse or a love potion, then it's their own fault for doing stupid shit. Not that anyone would phrase it that way, of course. As I said, I'm on the muggle's side, and I don't really see a difference between bending him to my will and making it so his will will only flow in one direction. It's like stopping the left fork in a river and saying that you didn't force the water to go to the right fork because you didn't physically push all that water there. It's technically accurate, but mayhaps a too narrow a meaning of 'force.'

Still, Mr. Funeral Director was being ridiculous, and I needed to just get this stupid mission finished.

Soon enough, I stand above a baby Tommy Riddle in a poetic role reversal. I had switched wands in transit, and now I hold a long stick of yew with a Fawkes feather over the helpless little creature. For he is actually small and helpless, not even old enough to open his eyes and regard the world with wonder.

And so there I was. A survivor – le survivant, as I said the French called me – standing over the baby form of my nemesis with two love-drunk muggles standing irreverently over my shoulder.

I'm two words away from ending it – again poetically – from ever starting. There is no prophesy now, though I guess I haven't actually checked that with the Department of Mysteries. And yet I'm not sure if I can, much less want, to try and end of the life of a baby.

Said baby gurgles and turns over.

His hair is blonde now, I absently note. I heard a lifetime ago that the eyes of newborn babies are always blue. His eyes are closed, so I can't tell. Not that any of this matters, they're just evidence. They're evidence of how much harder premeditated murder is than killing in the midst of battle.

I've never done the former. I have become too accustomed to the latter. See, I killed my first man when I was eleven. Professor Quirrell was a man possessed – literally. And while I'm sure my biographers back in my original time will say that I didn't know what I was doing – well, maybe not Rita Skeeter's biography of me – and that I killed Quirrell by accident, I'm perfectly comfortable telling you differently. I meant to kill him. He was trying to steal immortality for Voldemort. He was trying to kill me. And, given that I had no idea how close Dumbledore was from rescuing me, I did the only thing I could do – end him.

Same my second year. Sure, Tommy Riddle was again trying to steal the soul from Ginny. He was an evil boy who had already killed a little girl and blamed it on another little – well, young – boy. And I knew he would kill again, to say nothing of being certain that he would kill me, if I let him suck Ginny dry. So, I did the only conceivable thing. I killed him. I stabbed a great big poisonous Basilisk fang through what I later learnt was part of his soul. And he died.

It's funny that I wasn't sixteen until I killed another person. Okay, maybe not funny, but you'd think I'd keep with my track record. Certainly my track record on almost dying held up pretty well. Then again, I more than made up for my four slow years of death. It seemed that I did nothing but slaughter, help slaughter, and avoid being slaughtered during what would have been my seventh year.

I still remember my first killing curse. Charlie and I just chopped off the heads of two werewolves when we were bum-rushed by two more. We each fell to one, but I managed to get my legs above me and kick out the stomach of mine. He flew over my head, and I brought my wand down in an insanely overpowered blasting curse. Once he was gore, I looked to Charlie. Charlie was not doing well. His face was already a fantastic pulp, and the werewolf howled over his immobile body in triumph. The werewolf leaned forward to feast, and rage overtook me. The creature was dead before I knew what spell I'd cast.

But this was the first time I had time to contemplate murder. Before I killed always to protect someone, myself or a friend. And even my first killing curse hadn't left the stain that I thought it would, hadn't left me woozy or cold or grief-stricken or anything. But this was different, or, at least, I want it to be different, I think that it should be different. The problem is that I don't feel any different.

Looking down on this innocent bundle of gurgling mess, I wonder why I still want it to die. This creature, this baby, is not evil. He's cute. He's small. Yet he will become evil; he will kill.

And it isn't just because of this crap environment. See, I saw Dumbledore's memory of Mrs. Cole when she ran this place. She was more scared of Tom Riddle than angry at him. She pitied him more than hated him, even. This was not a nurturing environment, nothing like the Burrow, but it was far from a horrid, twisted, sad one. Even looking around this place now, with Mr. Self-centred Arsehole at the helm, it is a pleasant enough place. Again, it's not luxurious or cushy or even warm, but far from torture.

I can't assume that it was the environment that corrupted him. My environment was as bad, maybe worse. Yet, I still turned out okay.

But this is where Dumbledore and I differ the most. He thinks everyone is innately good and turned bad by circumstance. I believe that some people are just naturally bad. And perhaps it's not even being bad so much as having certain temptations. There is no real reason why Tom Riddle went dark and I stayed – relatively – light, except that his temptation was to know everything and be an authoritarian and mine is to get angry at idiocy and be lazy. Snape's temptation was to blame others for what was chance or his own failures. So, even after he escaped his abusive and made friends with the love of his life, he still was a selfish prick. Even in his thirties, he abused a child who represented his failures even though he knew that I was innocent of all – well, maybe just most – of the crimes for which he blamed me. Dumbledore fell victim to the call of power and accidently killed his sister; he never put himself in a situation to grab power again, simply because he knew – knew, knew, knew – that, however much he guarded against temptation, it was in his very nature to be tempted if power was given to him.

Yeah – people don't fundamentally change. And, unless I want to raise this child myself, being overbearing in my administration and his edification, then the child would invariably turn dark. He might turn dark even if I took his education upon myself. And, however selfless I have been, I could never raise Voldemort – even his pathetic younger doppelganger – by myself. To say nothing of how hard that would be to explain at Hogwarts.

I also have to correct myself, I now realise. This isn't the first time I've stood over someone helpless and thought, known maybe, that I should kill him. I once stood over Peter Pettigrew in the Shrieking Shack, held down by Sirius and Moony, and commuted his death sentence. Even after Peter escaped and Sirius was condemned, I felt justified that night, as if my parents would be proud of me. Dumbledore certainly was – 'not many men,' he said, or something close to it, 'would let the murderer of his parents face justice instead of vengeance.' I felt good that day.

Looking back on it now, knowing that Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore, and everyone else has died for that mistake, I realise that, however proud I was, whatever self-righteous satisfaction Dumbledore thought I should feel, meant nothing in the end. Pettigrew resurrected Voldemort. Pettigrew, in short, made the entire second war possible.

I lower my wand.

Looking down at the infant, I know that I should kill the creature. Yet, I cannot. I stand here, knowing what horrors he may cause, knowing what he could do and yet I'm impotent. Even after all the dead I've made, even after all the dead I've mourned, I cannot kill an infant, however deserving.

Fuck.

I console myself with the thought that Dumbledore will watch him at Hogwarts and that a twelve, fifteen, or even seventeen year old Riddle will be almost laughably easy to kill if need be. I stick to that thought like a rosary – all blind faith, no matter of reason – and roll it around in my head hoping, exalting, wishing, and despairing at its truth.

Fuck.

I raise my wand again, but this time I turn to the others. I can't believe I'm doing this for Tommy-fucking-Riddle. "_Imperio_, _Imperio_." And the two muggles are my slaves.

On first glance, I seem somewhat insane. Whatever I could possibly need to do, chancing life in Azkabam is not worth it. And it's not, if I was actually chancing life in Azkabam. See, there is a little loophole in our glorious judicial system. Although it is illegal to cast an unforgivable on any "being," a being is defined within that section as any "creature with a magical core."

And no, muggles do not have magical cores. And yes, that means it's not technically illegal to dominate, torture, or murder a muggle – so long as you don't break the statute of secrecy. Actually, muggle torture will be made illegal, but not until Voldemort's first rise.

There's something wrong with me hoping that muggle torture will never be made illegal.

Back on topic, if I felt bad about using the _philia_ curse on the muggles, then I certainly should feel bad dominating them. And I would, except, if I can't kill Riddle, then I have to do my damndest to make sure he is as little fucked with as he possibly can be by the time he gets to Hogwarts. Also, as I said, I don't see much of a difference between the two spells.

Extending my hand, I transfigure one of the small rings on the left hand into a small steel knife. Yeah, magic is way awesome. Ms. Edwards moves forward while the Funeral Director runs off to get a large bowl of water.

Then I stand there for a while. The baby Riddle is being surprisingly quiet. Again, I don't know much about babies, but my understanding is that they whined a lot. Riddle isn't doing that. He's just sort of squirming to a non-existent song. He's sort of cute.

Luckily, the return of the Funeral Director yanks me from my dreary thoughts. I set the bowl and the knife down on the ground. I draw my Yew and from my right sleeve and use it to hover the bowl while I maintain a flight charm with my Phoenix wand.

I'm about to try and slice open Ms. Edwards's hand with the knife via flight charm when I remember my _imperius_ curses. The Funeral Director comes forward and grabs the knife. Then, methodically, blankly, and far more exactly than he probably could have otherwise, he slices a thin, clean line down the length of the Ms. Edward's palm.

Ms. Edwards drains some of her blood into the bowl. With my Phoenix wand, I heal and clean her cut. Ms. Edwards takes the knife from her boss and walks towards Riddle. With another clean, thin slice, she makes Riddle bleed into the bowl. And now he's crying – bawling his little baby eyes out.

I feel bad. So, after she finishes, I heal his cut, clean it, and then cast a sleeping spell on the poor little boy. He's in dreamland immediately.

And now that's a question. We don't know if animals dream, since we don't understand their brains at all. But we get humans, and we know we dream. So, do babies dream? And, if they do, how can they conceive of their dreams before they can dream. This, of course, raises yet another question: do the blind dream in colour?

Anyways, none of this matters. What does is that I've just realised I need a pinch of sulphur, a small ruby, and crushed dragonfly wings. I can't conjure that. This is the one down side about using a Potter Plan. I should have packed my emergency potions kit, just in case.

Closing, locking, and soundproofing the door with my Phoenix wand, I gently lower the bowl to the ground, un-transfigure the knife and put it on my finger, then crack away. As I pop back into my room at Dumbledore's, there is a slight pull on my mind. Controlling people via the _imperius_ is made harder by four factors: the number of subjects, the magical power of the subjects, the will of the subjects, and the distance from the subjects. Even muggles can throw off the curse if the other factors are strong enough, and I just increased the distance between myself and the subjects rather dramatically.

Still, my willpower is neigh unbeatable. Stubborn, they call me. And my magical power is, let's be honest, the second strongest in the world – or at least Europe – right now. I rather easily overpower the muggles again, and within the minute, I have my emergency potions ingredients.

With another crack, I return. With Yew, I raise the bowl. With Phoenix, I hover the ingredients over the bowl.

Now comes the hard part. See, I might be wilful, skilful, and powerful, but even I have my limits. Passing the hovering off from Phoenix to Yew, then using Phoenix to direct a stirring spoon from the kit, then conjuring a fire, using the spoon to stir the ingredients in one by one, very slowly, while maintaining the fire at the right temperature, still hovering the bowl, and keeping the two _imperius _curses on tight – yeah, that's fucking hard.

I get it done though, and soon enough my potion is finished. I ladle out two unevenly distributed doses, one encased in a goblet, the other in a bottle. I have Ms. Edwards drink the goblet full of steaming red liquid. I have her then feed the bottle to Riddle. They both glow softly, and even through the _imperius_ curse, the woman manages a little smile down at the infant.

The mixture I'm making is a powerful derivation of a love potion. The potion does not induce the simulacrum of romantic love – lust with happy thoughts – into its subject. Instead, it induces in the subject a great desire to protect, support, and guide the other person whose blood was used. We often mixed the cocktail during the war and fed it to captured Death Eaters – instant spy.

I've never tested what will happen when two different people ingest the potion. Hopefully, it will make Riddle more susceptible for the teachings of Ms. Edwards. I like the bird already. She seems to have a good head on her shoulders, and I know that, eventually, she'll be in charge. Maybe Riddle will turn out better. I hope Riddle will turn out better.

Using Yew to pack everything up again, I re-sheath the wand. I'll only need Phoenix from here on out.

It takes about five seconds for the average person to fully appreciate what has happened under the _imperius_ curse. It takes the average person a full three seconds for someone to recover from being _obliviated_. It takes a skilled person less than a second to cast an overpowered _finite incantatem_. It takes even a slow person less than a second to apparate.

When well practiced, one can drop an _imperius_, snap off two precise _obliviates_, overpower wards already cast around a room, and apparate home and still have time to survey a well-finished job and regret the work you've done.

War allowed me to suppress my shivers until I was home. Then I couldn't stop.

That night I'm particularly moody. I can tell that Albus knows something's up, which isn't, you know, exactly a surprise. He's fairly sharp, is Albus. And I'm not hiding this well. I keep twitching. That makes it sound like I have some sort of nervous tick. I keep squirming; there, that's better. Half of me wants to apparate back there and put Voldemort's rise down for good. Half of me is convinced that I made the right move. And half of me, yes, the third half, is sick, just sick of the whole time-travel thing and making hard decisions thing and, to a certain degree, the whole life thing, which sounds so melodramatic and isn't meant in a maudlin, suicide-contemplating way. It just sucks.

Fuck it.

When Voldemort was ascendant, everything was so much easier. Kill or die - that was it. And you never wanted death, so you killed.

I had heard stories about it, killing that is. Again, this was in books. Like with weather, it doesn't work the same way in reality. There is no cataclysmic recognition that you've taken a life. There is no sudden epiphany; there is no horror, no self-loathing, no nothing. I dodged a killing curse, snapped off a blaster, then deflected a garrotting curse, then shot off an overpowered severing charm. Suddenly, my leg shattered – hit by a bone breaker, and hard – and so I shot back the same, overpowered a bit, and I vaporised Avery's ribs and spine.

I didn't take pleasure in it, but I never cried over it. I cried over Mrs. Weasley. She'd been battling Bellatrix. Mrs. Weasley took out the evil bitch's right arm, but lost her life in exchange.

Ginny eventually got revenge.

Anyways, so I sat there in silence, realising that life in peacetime is actually far more confusing than life during war. Albus sat there in silence too. And it stretched on.

Just after Albus refilled my tea, he spoke, "How'd it go today?"

Silence. I can't be sure if Albus knew where I went or not. I assume that he didn't, that he couldn't possibly know, but, then again, he was Albus Dumbledore.

We pass another minute or two in silence, now decidedly uncomfortable.

"Do you like the tea?" he asks.

"Uh... yeah. It's grand. Thanks." It is rather good, not that I'd noticed before.

"It's the ratio of lemon to honey that makes it just right."

I nod.

"Have you ever hosted a tea?"

"Can't say I have."

"Ah" and then there was more silence, calmer now.

It's one of the things I know I've mentioned a hundred times already. If it seems that I'm beating it over the head, then it's only because I feel as if it is a ton of bricks that keep whacking me. Anyways, I should probably get to what 'it' is: Albus is so much more awkward in the 1920s!

Fine, so he actually has better social graces than anyone, besides ol' Slughorn and perhaps McGonagall, that I've ever known. Still, I remember the Dumbledore who could talk down murderers as if he was talking about the weather, the Dumbledore that could warn off politicians as if he was discussing puppies, and the Dumbledore who could lift the mood of the most depressed with a well-placed observation.

This Dumbledore seems like a social idiot in comparison.

"So..." he clears his throat, "I have your book list. What are you electives?"

"Arithmancy and Ancient Runes," as in everything I never took in my old life.

"We can go tomorrow."

"I can go by myself. It won't be a problem."

"I can go with you. I ... em... need to go regardless."

"Sure, that's cool."

"That's cool?"

I shut my eyes for a moment, then open them. Like a lethargic wince. "Yeah, anachronism. It means ... em... grand, wonderful, except less so. Maybe just good, but more so."

"So it's a measure of expressing joy, gratitude, or otherwise happy emotions that falls between saying good and grand."

"Yeah, that."

"Thank you. Your lexicon is fascinating. I wonder what runic implications your arrival will have on English spells."

I wonder if there are any other parselmouths. I might be the first person since Voldemort killed his relatives – which I guess is still in the future – to be... but nevermind. It's in the future. That means that the relatives are around now. Bugger – there are currently at least four parselmouths extant. It was a nice thought.

I wish that had made more sense.

"So... em... tomorrow, we'll go to Diagon Alley?" Dumbledore is just trying to confirm.

"Yeah. What time?"

"Let's say just after breakfast," which I know means about nine or ten.

"Sure." There is another silence, but I interrupt it before it gets too long. "Okay, well, I think I'm off to bed."

"You don't want dinner?"

I had forgotten that he hadn't eaten yet. Still, "No thanks. I'll eat in the morning. Night."

I'm almost out the door before Albus can repeat my farewell.

The next morning, I feel a little better. Albus and I are discussing the runic implications of my arrival, and how my unexpected introduction into the world might change the English language. Remember how I said that the words of an incantation are actual magic? I also said that the precision of their use determines, in part, its power. Well, the magic of this is like gravitation – the larger the body, the greater the pull.

In the universe of magical power generated by the English language, I'm a very strong pull – a very, very strong pull.

So too is Albus. It is something you get used to right quick when living with the bloke. His older self either hid his power well or had it sapped by old age. Either way, the younger Albus was a monster. When I awake each the morning, I feel his power pulsating through the walls. When I go to bed at night, I feel the hum of his power vibrating through the floor.

Being still a teenager, I can't control my power anywhere near even the forty year old Albus. He too must have gotten used to it. It's one of the reasons, I expect, he never asked me how I killed Voldemort. You don't feel this kind of power without expecting it to do great things.

Which makes me somewhat sick. As I said, I'm not a scholar, just a solider.

But living in the same house with Albus, I finally understand Ollivander's insistence that I'd do great things. If you're sensitive to the magic, you can feel the magic of the world humming around you. And if I'm anywhere near as powerful as Albus – and I know I am – then I must show up bright and clear on anyone's radar.

I miss a step as I realise that muggle radar probably hasn't been invented yet. Magical radar doesn't, and never did, exist, so I don't know why I specified that the radar was muggle.

I shake my head, and try to tune back into what Albus is saying. "So," he concludes, though I don't remember what he said before, "We're going to apparate to Gringotts. You'll drop off your money. Then we'll go to Betty's Bountiful Books, and then we'll grab you some potions supplies. You'll have the rest of the week to finish the assignments for class, though I'll give you a pass."

"Thanks Albus." I want to say that he can suck his pass, that I don't want special treatment, especially if I'm going to be posing as his cousin. But I really don't want to do essays again. I remain silent instead.

Albus and I both crack away.

And we're looking at Gringotts. I stumble a little and glare at the case I'm rolling along next to me. Then I look up; the white imposing stone is still the same as ever. Off to my right, I see what is now 'Master Malkin's Robes' for All Occasions. At least everything hasn't changed.

One thing that had, though, was that there were now six goblin guards standing outside of Gringotts, not just two. I can't think of anything in my history classes that made them change the practice. The last Goblin rebellion was a small one that ended in... fuck. Hermione was always better at the history crap than I was.

But there's an easy solution. As Albus and I pass through the large marble doors, I turn to Albus, "When was the last goblin rebellion?"

"1901."

Well, that would do it. Goblins had long, long memories.

We stand in line. I'm wheeling a huge obsidian case. Galleons are great, very useful to have money and all, but they're damn near magic-proof. It's hard to make the feather-light charm stick for any length of time. Apparating with them had been next to impossible. But it was like activating a wand from distance – all you need is extra power.

Albus and I bounce from foot to foot as we wait. No one really talks in Gringotts. It's not a very welcoming place.

Finally, we're up front and facing a nondescript goblin. I've never been able to tell them apart. Still, I know the basic niceties, "Hello Master Counter, I have a deposit to make." Goblins are very into titles and they're very into saving time. If you can manage both, they stomach you fairly well.

Griphook is still a little fucker though.

The goblin gives a feral smile at my greeting. "How many galleons would you care to deposit Mr. ..."

"Dumbledore," I say. "I'm Cederic James Dumbledore, and I'd like to deposit all the galleons in this," I motion to the case, "case in a level one vault." A level one vault is the lowest security level. It has few protections – not that it truly matters, given Gringott's obscene level of security. But it also is the only level I know of that doesn't demand a blood sample.

"Sure thing Mr. Dumbledore. How many galleons are in the case?"

"It has thirty-one thousand, seven hundred, and twenty eight galleons, eighty two sickles, and seven hundred and three knuts."

The goblin goes absolutely still, which is akin to a human's eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. In fact, Albus's eyes do just that. And I curse myself for coming out with it like it's no big deal. To me, money never has been. But, before the second war, this money was a lot, quite a lot. Only the really old families had more, and Arthur made less than one hundredth of this a year.

The Potters were wealthy, what can I say? The goblin and Albus are just lucky that I, in a fit of abnegation, promised Hermione's memory to fund SPEW with two million galleons. I'm not sure what they would have done had I tried to deposit a hundred times this amount. Still, I should have known this would catch too much attention. Any attention is too much attention.

The goblin recovers fairly quickly. "Surely Mr. Dumbledore. Right this way." The blighter leads us through the double doors towards their executive account managers, and I'm already regretting visiting Gringotts.

I'd always found the hallways in Gringotts rather creepy. They were long, fairly dark, and yet blindingly white. Marble polished beyond belief – even ten overpowered _scourify_s couldn't do it that well.

Also, for creatures so small, Goblins sure liked their ceilings large. The overpowering space helped make me feel insignificant when I first entered Gringotts. And I know that's part of the intent. It's not the main reason, however. When you know why the ceilings really are so high, the whole thing is even more ominous. Gringott's ceilings are so high because Goblins have golems that they've created, used to guard against an attack or a break in at Gringotts. The golems guard only the top floor because they're so heavy, but they're also neigh impossible to penetrate with magic, huge, unbearably strong, and astonishingly quick.

I'd never seen them in action, but I'd fought against a wizard-made Golem, said to be weaker, and it was still tough as fuck.

So, yeah, the height of Gringotts kinda freaks me out.

The goblin leads us down one hallway. Then, at a dead end, we turn right. Halfway through this hallway, we make another right, then we turn left, then another right, then left again, then right into a curved hallway, and if you're confused by this time, then I sure as fuck am. Finally, we make another right, another left, a sharp right, and an abrupt left. The goblin stops before a golden door, and the only reason I haven't shit myself is because Albus and I are the two most powerful wizards in Europe right now, and we could probably take apart half the bank, or at least its wards, if needed.

The goblin bows before the door and says, "Director Veinfist to see you," and the door opens.

Hermione complained a little about goblins not being allowed to use wands, and Dean always said it was somewhat unfair too. They never quite understood what I learnt from the wizards, and from history. Goblins don't need wands. Yeah, they're prohibited from using them, but mostly because a warlock treats his wand like all men treat their dicks –too invested in something of such disappointing potency.

Goblins can't use wands; wands are banned just to rub it in their faces. Goblins use magic differently; they forge it into their armour, weapons, and doors. Or they wield it through swords. Seeing a goblin use magic, as our guide-goblin did in opening the door, is disconcerting.

Regardless, the door creeks open, and I barely manage to not shit my pants. We enter and I chance a look at Albus. He is surprisingly composed. I wonder if I look the same.

"Hello." I'm shocked back to the present.

Director Veinfist stands before me. "Hello Director," I say, and I'm glad to hear that my voice doesn't tremble.

He simply lifts an eyebrow. When neither Albus nor I respond, he speaks again. "Why are you here?"

I smile slightly, "I'm not really sure. I want to open a level one account."

His eyes narrow, "and you bother me for this why?"

I shrug and my smile glows, "I have no bloody clue, honestly. I'm here 'cause I was brought here."

"I see" he stretches the 'see' out, and I wonder if he's seen the telly of super-evil people who create tension in the heroes' quest by giving sarcastic replies and holding over him not yet defined punishments.

Then I realise that the telly doesn't exist yet. I await the next thing he's bound to say. And I wait some more. Awkward pauses really suck when you want something done.

"And how much do you want to deposit?"

"Just over thirty thousand."

"Galleons?"

"Galleons."

"And you want a level one vault?"

Oh, well if that's their only concern. "When was the last time any Gringott's vault was breached?"

He sneers, and I realise that I should know the answer to this already. "Twenty-six years ago."

"And before that?"

"Eighty-four years before that."

"And so why would I want a more secure vault?"

"Maybe yours'll be the one vault that's breeched." I raise my eyebrow. "Fine!" He's angry, and I'm not sure why. Maybe because I've just cheated them out of a good fee. Maybe just because he doesn't like back-talk, especially from a human.

I've also just cheated them out of getting to know my real name, of course, but I'm sure that has nothing to do with it.

Less than a half hour later, Albus and I are walking out of the bank. Say what you want about goblins, and I do, but they are efficient little buggers.

Oh, that reminds me. Now that we're talking about goblins, I just really need to get something off my chest. Some people – muggleborns mostly, myself included at one point – seem to think that goblins are just sad, misunderstood creatures who desperately want freedom and to integrate into society. The thought is that goblins would behave and help society flourish if only purebloods and wizards generally wouldn't look down on them so.

This is a load of shit. I understand the draw to be egalitarian, and I admire it. Seeing how Dobby and Kretcher were treated, to say nothing of how Um-bitch treated the Centaurs, I really do appreciate it. But it's misguided when applied to goblins.

The goblins have a motto. I don't know the exact translation; I don't speak gobbledegook, but it roughly translates to: 'bash a child's skull with a boulder; if the child breaks, then you shouldn't have fed him; if the boulder breaks, then put the fear of death into him every day and he'll grow into a fine young man.' The translation leaves something to be desired, sure, but I'm assured than it's actually quite literary in the original. The point is that goblins are fucking scary.

But that isn't the worst of it. Their society is painfully hierarchical. A boss can order his subordinate killed for any reason at any time and by any means. Seriously – you don't blow your boss exactly as he demands, and he can kill you. Of course, lineage protects you somewhat; their lineage laws are even more bloodline-obsessed than Wizarding laws. Even worse, their hierarchy is disturbingly sexist. If you know anything about the muggle Saudi Arabia or Iran, you have some idea what I'm talking about. Childless goblin women cannot be punished or executed. Therefore, if a goblin woman 'deserves,' and I use that term as loosely as possible, punishment, they rape her, make her produce a kid, and then torture her to death for giving them 'such trouble.' Yeah – the uneasy peace we have with the goblins is fine by me.

And I kinda went on a little rant there. I don't like goblins. But anyways, Albus and I are walking out of the bank and we go off on our other errands. The whole alley is a wonderland of novelty.

'A wonderland of novelty' – where the fuck do I come up with this shit? Still, however saccharine that sounds, it's true. When I popped into Diagon Alley the first time, I spent the whole twenty seconds I was here realising that I should have just apparated directly to the orphanage. Now that I'm back, I realise how weird the place truly is.

I remember Diagon Alley as a magical place – pun very much intended – of shocks, surprises, and safe, wholesome stores. I remembered Knockturn Alley as a place of darkness and dangerous and perilous adventure. I didn't even know of Devet's Alley until my seventh year, and then only by association. My understanding was that it was the slums of Wizarding London – brothels that couldn't afford polyjuice and inns that couldn't afford to keep a Hogwarts graduated wizard on staff.

As I walk past seedy enchanters on my way to their neighbours – high-end apothecaries – I wonder just what could have happened to turn Diagon Alley into the 'proper' alley.

As we exit 'Enticing Ingredients,' Albus says "the best bookstore is around the corner," meaning Knockturn Alley. My confusion increases.

And increases again as we enter Knockturn Alley. The Alley is dark and overcast as I remember it, but seems somewhat brighter than before – seventy some-odd years in the future. I still don't like time travel. But anyway, the Knockturn Alley of the present appears even more high class than Diagon Alley. It has toy stores and pet stores, and I see even a fine restaurant or two.

Our time spent down Knockturn Alley, which only thrust us about half a street down into the alley, ended quickly. The benefit of hanging with Albus is that he's fairly well stocked when it comes to books. The detriment of hanging with Albus is that he knows everyone.

There's a copy of _Rare Wards of the World _on the stands outside the store, and I grab it as we walk through the doors. It was out of print by the time I was born and almost impossible to buy. Albus approaches the shopkeeper first thing. He appears to be a fairly old man, and yet simultaneously as young as Albus. His smile is easy, his posture relaxed, and his gait unencumbered. His eyes are somewhat wide set, but I ignore that entirely. In short, I like him already, and he hasn't even opened his mouth.

"Albus!" he shouts, "My friend. I thought you had all the books you needed."

"I do Jonathan. But my cousin is about to enter Hogwarts," Albus motions to me.

So I step forward, "Cederic sir," I say as I stick out my hand.

He looks at my hand oddly and bows before taking it. "Clearly a man of the continent," he says to Albus. Then to me, he adds, "My name is Jonathan Prince, Mr. Dumbledore. It's a pleasure to meet you. Your cousin is a favourite customer of mine."

"I'm sure he singlehandedly keeps you in business," I say with a smile. Both men laugh.

"Not quite, but I can always count on ol' Albus." There is a slight pause, and I wish I could say something. I don't like being mute and feeling like a child again. Jonathan speaks up quickly enough, though, "So, you're from the continent?"

I smile. It's the lie we've agreed upon. I just didn't know that I'd fit the lie so well that others could tell. "Yes sir. How could you tell?"

Albus cringes a little, and I realise that I should know. Luckily, Jonathan doesn't seem to find it odd, "you move to shake hands boy," he says with a smile, "that's a continental thing. A muggle thing."

He's still smiling, so I know that he doesn't get uppity about blood purity. From the smile on his face, he doesn't get uppity about much. "Um..." and don't I feel like an idiot. It's not as if I've killed any Dark Lords recently or anything. Fuck – "I didn't even notice. It's no wonder the Potters thought me odd. I bowed to them, but I don't quite know the proper forms."

Jonathan laughs good naturedly. And it's then that I fully realise what his last name means. He's a Prince. He might be the granduncle or the grandfather of Severus Snape. Well fuck. I look at the man with greater appreciation now.

He's fairly tall, almost as tall as Albus and quite a bit taller than me. He's fairy lanky, with sleek – one might, if one was uncharitable, call it greasy – brown hair. He hunched a little and a large nose dominates his face. I could actually see quite a bit of my least favourite professor. It's the smile, Jonathan's large almost overpowering smile, that seemed completely out of place for an ancestor of Severus.

Jonathan speaks again, "with the old families, no one quite knows the proper forms nowadays." Then Jonathan looked to my cousin, "Albus seems to get by fine. Otherwise, we're all a little uncomfortable."

I ask a question before I can even think, "Really? The whole wizarding world seems a little off recently." I then add something that I hope saves me, "France certainly was."

Jonathan laughs easily again, but there is a weariness to his eyes that wasn't there a moment ago. "Aye. France got the worst of the Goblin rebellion, and I even heard that their wizards were engaged in that Great War the muggles had."

I nod as if I agree, and, as I'd hoped, Jonathan continues, "Yes, I don't know about France, but England has had an influx of muggleborns and we're still not sure how to deal with 'em. My daughter, Amelia, was courting a muggleborn man named James Churchill. The man was a good sort of lad, responsible, intelligent, and fierce, but he was such a pompous little arse. He learnt that Amelia had lain with two of her classmates and went quite ballistic. It was so odd. I never truly heard the full story."

I nod, hoping to placate him. He might not know the full story, but I already do. Muggles, especially in the early decades of the 20th century, were far more prudish than wizards had been for thousands of years. I increasingly got the impression that the wizarding world was in a sort of surreal culture shock.

And Jonathan's confusion suggested that the wizarding world was even more liberal than I remembered. I remember when Ron feared that Skeeter had made Hermione out to be a 'scarlet woman.' Apparently, that wasn't quite the concern that Jonathan had if was willing to tell an almost complete stranger about his daughter's promiscuity.

In sum, I feel completely-fucking-adrift.

Luckily, Albus quickly rescues us, "So, Jonathan," he says, "do you have anything new in stock."

Albus and Jonathan talk about books as I scamper about finding the books I need for the new term. I add several on wizarding history, just so I sort this whole thing out. In twenty minutes, we're out of there, and we're home soon enough.

Mrs. Weasley hadn't seen me for months. Her hug is suffocating, though I still manage to enjoy it. She's a mother hen if ever there was one. Her children await their own suffocation, but she hugs me first. Their faces are amused, mine is rather embarrassed. She should be paying attention to her children, I think. They all seem to disagree.

As if he can read my mind, Ron laughs blithely, saying, "Told you you were a Weasley mate!" As if we didn't know this already.

Something about this meeting is different though. There's a tension in the air that's more piercing than the November cold. A Minister has been assassinated for the first time since the Goblin rebellion of 1857. And the ministry building was destroyed for the first time since ever. Voldemort's power grows.

And the new minister, Minister Abbot, is the consummate politician. His first public act in office is to tour the defences of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. His demeanour is gruff, direct, and suspicious. I'm actually somewhat comforted by that.

Professor Dumbledore, Minister Abbot, MLE Head Kingsley, and I spent several hours that very morning really discusses defence. Dumbledore and I, mostly I, told them everything we knew about Voldemort – everything pertinent at least. We agree to restrict apparation travel, over my objection. And we authorise the use of the unforgivables, over Dumbledore's objection. The Professor and I stressed the need to erect anti-transit wards over Hogsmeade; Kingsley agreed with us; but Abbot vetoed us all.

We also discussed my training. Dumbledore's already assigned Moody and Tonks to me, when they have free time. Abbot went a step further. He assigned two full time bodyguards and trainers – Aurors Abbot and Dawlish. I fear somewhat that he's just trying to get his son out of danger, but I've seen Dawlish fight. The man's an ass, but he's damn good.

I'm glad that I decided to take only three NEWTs this year.

After we discussed security for real, we took the tour and pretended to discuss security. Our army of ministry flunkies, Professors, and reporters had just entered Hogsmeade when more ministry flunkies and reporters, plus a sizable portion of the town itself, overran us.

And that's when we met Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

Later, Walking besides the Minister, I continue trying to convince him that anti-transit wards are actually necessary over Hogsmeade.

"We made apparation illegal," he says patiently, "or, at least, we will. We don't also need to erect wards."

I roll my eyes, and Dumbledore explains, "But only Voldemort actively flaunts his power through the illegality of his actions."

"And that's why we don't need to do it," says Abbot. "If our sensors discover apparation anywhere, we simply apparate a short distance from them with overwhelming force. In this way, we cut off you-know-who's support. If we put the wards around Hogsmeade, we've have less of an opportunity to discover his agents."

Dumbledore just grimaces and haphazardly lifts his blackened, dangling arm, "Or he could ambush us."

Have I ever said how much I fucking hate fate? Practically as soon as those words leave Dumbledore's mouth, my scar flares with pain and a cacophony of pops sound.

Acting on instinct alone, I dive into the Minister, tackling him to the ground. I count at least four killing curses that fly over our heads. One strikes the Minister's wife in the arm; she falls. Another curse clips Auror Savage as he dives. Or, I thought it had clipped him. In actuality, it must have only touched his shirt. The man doesn't die, but his shirt explodes into flame. Auror Savage writhes on the floor screaming his lungs out.

And we're fighting. Hogsmeade is a shit show already. I see Dumbledore and Flitwick trading spells with Voldemort. Lucius is trading spells with Arthur and Tonks. And for a moment, the Minister and I are left alone.

But that doesn't last long. I feel a spell coming at me and I dive. Rolling, I see that Luna was hit with it – the cruciatus curse. Her screams are horrible, and surprisingly audible. It's one of the weirdest things about magical combat, something being raised by muggles made almost impossible to comprehend.

Unlike guns, which make an impossibly loud popping noise, most spells don't have sounds. I mean, sure, a blasting curse may be deafening if it slams hard enough into a wall close to you or something, but the spell itself doesn't make sound. It's why formal duelling is more like tennis than fencing. There are occasional grunts – in war accented with screams of pain – and there is an occasional explosion, but mostly it's silent spell, shuffle from a dodge, shouted spell, grunt, shuffle, silent spell, rinse, repeat.

I get my footing, parry a piercing curse, and decapitate the man cursing Luna.

I feel another spell coming at me, and I twist out of the way. It only partially works. Had I not dodged, I would have had a hole straight through my heart, which even magical medicine cannot fix. Instead, my left shoulder has a seeping galleon thick hole where a piercing curse flew through.

I turn to face my attacker. It's Bellatrix. I see red and start firing everything I know at her. But even the illegal shit I know – the demolition curses, the severing curses, even the bone-shatter-ers – she manages to block or deflect like so much rubbish.

And I'm starting to tire. The blood loss can't be helping, and she's laughing at me like she laughed at Sirius. She throws some dark curses at me. I can feel the hate, or authority, or lust radiating off of them. I fucking hate dark magic. It doesn't help that I don't know dark magic for shit. And the bitch is still laughing.

I retaliate with the only dark spell I know at her – _rupture_. It's the thin purple curse that Dolohov threw at Hermione.

I get the pleasure of hearing her shriek as she barely dodges the third deep purple line. But dark magic is even more tiring than regular magic – I don't yet know why. And so I start to throw the normal shit again, and end up falling on my face from exhaustion just as a compression curse finally slams into the bitch's side.

She cackles even through the pain, crazy fucking bitch. "Oh, little Hawwy, that the best you can do? The mutt would be so vewy sad. _Avada Kadavra_!"

And I can't dodge, so I know I'm dead. Fuck the prophesy, a bint with crazy eye'll finish me off.

But she doesn't. The spell goes wide, and I realise it's actually me who's going wide. I smash down on to the ground, only then realising that I was hit by a banisher. I shake my head slightly, trying to re-attach my mind to my body. I had been so prepared to die – yet again – and I lived – yet again.

The shock is debilitating. It might just be the blood loss.

I look at Bellatrix and see her exchanging spells with Mrs. Weasley. The spells fly back and forth at a pace I can barely see, but both women seem to deflect, shield, and dodge with ease. Neither have been hit once.

I need that training more than I thought.

Bellatrix palms off a cutting curse, and flings back a thick orange curse. Mrs. Weasley summons a flock of birds, one of which takes the curse and disintegrates in thick gooey strands. Then Mrs. Weasley flings a deep green curse, followed by a light purple one that looks like Ginny's famous Bat-Boogey.

Bellatrix takes the green curse and bats away the purple one. The green curse doesn't seem to do anything, and I can seem Mrs. Weasley's surprise as her next four spells are batted away as if they were nothing.

I feel cool hands on my shoulder. I don't need to turn around to know who it is. Ginny's perfume is quite recognisable. She thrusts a potion into my hand – blood replenished – and then raises her wand. We're both distracted by the battle.

Bellatrix just shot off several sky blue spells. Mrs. Weasley shrieks as she conjures a thin slab of stone. The spells all sparkle off the wall in rainbow coloured sparks, leaving no trace that they had any power whatsoever. Bellatrix smashes the wall and both witches banish it – but Mrs. Weasley wins. The shards streak towards Bellatrix who tries to melt them and throw them back.

Splitting her attention like that, her two spells are no match for Mrs. Weasley's one. Mrs. Weasley's second banisher is stronger than Bellatrix's and the melted mass collides with Bellatrix's right arm.

I wish I could say that I find Bellatrix's shrieks of pain as disturbing as Luna's. But I don't. I simply wish they'd go on longer or be silenced forever. Ginny stands up, and flanks her mum as the two redheaded women stalk towards Bellatrix.

For her part, Bellatrix has fallen down, still screaming. She'd probably have put out the molten stone by now, except that her wand's been incinerated. I smile. I'm a bad man.

Mrs. Weasley's a better person than I am. She sends a stream of water out of her wand, cooling the molten rock and obscuring my vision with a brief bout of steam. I take that time to look around the battlefield and try to stand up myself.

The battle is over. We've won. Hopefully, the information extracted from the Death Eaters, including Bellatrix, will prove invaluable. Hopefully, we'll be able to save ourselves from another of these pitched battles. They'd not been working for us so far.

And the aftermath is never pretty; there are bodies strewn about, most of them groaning. It's one of the difficulties with after battle mop-up. It's far better to just stun the wounded, so they don't feel the pain and you don't have to listen to them moan. Stunning spells are, however, intensely dangerous to the wounded, as the heart is weak enough trying to keep a wounded body alive.

But I can already see Healers popping in and tending to the wounded.

There was then a scream of rotting pain. It tore through me worse than the bitch's piercing curse. It froze my heart, churned my stomach, and ignited my throat with bile. I turned.

I turn to see Ginny's shield shatter and a diminished purple line splash into her chest. She crumples to reveal a victorious Bellatrix behind. The bitch has a wand in her left hand, appears somewhat unbalanced, and, upon seeing me, gives a vicious wink before tapping her hip and swirling away.

I hate portkeys.

I rush to Ginny and am shocked to see the amount of blood covering her chest. It's only later that I realise it's not all her blood.

With a small voice, Ginny says, "mum," before she passes out.

With rising fear, I look to where Mrs. Weasley had been standing. Her stomach is a ruin, her intestines pooled on and underneath her legs, her eyes wide in pain. It's almost worse that she's still alive. Her gaze is weak, but it finds me. She looks to Ginny and then back at me, the plea clear in her face.

I could call for help, but I know it'll be too late. "I'll take care of her Molly. I promise."

She gives a small smile. Her mouth opens, just a little. I strain to hear. The battlefield is noisier in the aftermath than during the fighting. "Good" is the only word I make out, though I know there's more. Then, still with that small smile on her face, she closes her eyes.

I sit there and cradle her daughter, promising to myself, to Mrs. Weasley, to her brothers, to everyone that Ginny will never come close to harm again.

With a scream not at all repressed, I leap from my bed. I stand, naked, in the darkness, relishing the feeling of my sweat as it slowly freezes on my body.

My deep breaths aren't slowing my heart rate. Even after what must be five minutes, my heart still pounds like a train. This is exactly, exactly why I'm so happy that I never dream.

I failed them all, every single last one of them. It's not at all right that I get to have peace, that I get to go back in time where I don't have to face the devastated world I left behind. It's no fair that I am wealthy, and powerful, and whole. My worst fucking injury was the loss of my left hand. And I'd already learnt enough by that time to construct a Wormtail-like replacement seconds after it happened. I even made it flesh coloured. And then I just kept on fighting, and fighting, and fighting, and failing, and fuck!

And today I return to Hogwarts.


End file.
